


Sherlock's Foible

by Arrowsbane



Series: Sherlock Parallel Series [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-03 17:02:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/700599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arrowsbane/pseuds/Arrowsbane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chirpy, flirty, sarcastic and highly intelligent are all ways to describe the self-proclaimed nymphomaniac, Kestrel Lestrade. She spends most of her time flirting with suspects for information and insulting Anderson & Donovan, and also has a habit of wandering around naked to get a reaction. John finds Sherlock's oldest friend highly amusing, but will three be a crowd?</p>
<p>Cover Image: https://www.fanfiction.net/imanager/image_push.php?imageid=591687&width=300&hash=b1ff1fe54d94fba93cb5d8da174fe45b</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introducing: Sherlock Holmes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LilMxPlagueRat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilMxPlagueRat/gifts).



**1.1: Introducing: Sherlock Holmes**

* * *

_"Sorry, gotta dash, I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."_

_\- Sherlock Holmes_

* * *

In London, a man named John Watson tossed and turned, suffering from nightmares that forced him to relive the days spent with his battalion in Afghanistan. He dreamed that he and his friends were under fire, and a colleague called out his name. He bolted upright with a cry, panic stricken and close to hyperventilating for several moments until he realized that he was safe, far from the war. With a sigh, he flopped back down onto the mattress, and tried to calm his breathing, but eventually collapsed into a crying fit.

It was some time before the tears subsided, and he turned on the lamp next to the bed, but the sun still had not come up. He sat up, and looked across to the desk on the other side of the room where a metal walking cane sat, propped against the wall. A frown crossed his face, and he looked away, and began to gaze into the distance. He would not be sleeping again that night.

Eventually the sun rose, and John hobbled across the room, leaning on his cane for support. He put down a mug of tea and an apple before sitting down at the desk an retrieving his laptop from a drawer in the desk. In the drawer, underneath where his laptop had lain, sat a pistol - one that was probably not licensed. He opened up the laptop, which automatically loaded up a webpage that declared itself to be: "The personal blog of Dr. John H. Watson". The rest of the page was empty.

Later that day, John sat in a room with a psychotherapist that he was required to see.

"How's your blog going?" John's therapist, Ella, asked.

"Yeah, good." John said, and cleared his throat before adding.

"Very good." This time he said it with a little more conviction, but unfortunately Ella didn't believe him.

"You haven't written a word, have you?" Ella asked in a deadpan voice, and John narrowed his eyes. He pointed to the notepad that Ella held on her lap.

"You just wrote 'Still has trust issues.'" He accused, and Ella stared right back at him.

"And you read my writing upside down. D'you see what I mean?" Ella told him, and he gave her a wry smile.

"John, you're a soldier, and it's going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life; and writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you." Ella told him, looking him straight in the eye. John's face fell.

"Nothing happens to me." He told her in a resigned voice.

* * *

**OCTOBER 12th**

A middle-aged business man walked though a busy London railway station, talking into his mobile phone as he paced through the doors and out into the street.

"What d'you mean, there's no ruddy car?" He complained into the phone. On the other end was his blonde secretary, Helen.

"He went to Waterloo. I'm sorry. Get a cab." Helen told him.

"I never get cabs." He grouched.

"I love you." Helen whispered down the phone.

"When?" He said suggestively, and received a giggle in return.

"Get a cab!" Helen said, laughing. He hung up, and looked around to hail a cab. That was the last phone call he would ever make. Sometime later, he sat on the floor by the window of an empty office several floors up, and pulled out a bottle containing three large capsules. He tipped one out into his palm and ingested it. It wasn't long before he was writhing on the floor in agony. Not long after, he stopped moving. He was dead.

* * *

**NOVEMBER 26th**

Two boys, both in their late teens ran down a dark street in the rain. One of them was holding a collapsible umbrella, and was fighting the wind. The other had his jacket pulled up over his head. A Taxi cab approached, it's yellow service sign lit up and he let out a shout of triumph.

"Yes, yes, taxi, yes!" The boy in the jacket, James, shouted and whistled, but the Taxi drove on by. He let out an exasperated groan, and turned back to look at his friend Garry.

"I'll be back in two minutes, mate." James said, walking back down the street.

"What?" Garry asked.

"I'm just going home; get my mum's umbrella." James told him with a flap of his hand.

"You can share mine!" Garry protested, holding his own umbrella a little higher.

"Two minutes, all right?" James said, and walked away into the night. But it would not be alright, because James would not be coming back. Sometime later, Garry looked at his watch – James had been gone for too long. Garry gave up on the cab, and walked off after James. He never found him.

Later that night, James sat on a window ledge in an empty sports center, crying and clutching at a small glass bottle; a bottle that contained three capsules. He unscrewed the lid, and let out a shaky sob. The next day, the newspaper headline told his fate:

**Boy, 18, kills himself inside sports centre.**

* * *

**JANUARY 27th**

A party was being held in honor of the latest local MP. A large poster nearby bore the photo of Beth Davenport had just made Junior Minister for Transport, and was dancing the night away. As the music blared loudly, one of Beth's aides walked out of the party to join her colleague at the bar, looking highly frustrated.

"Is she still dancing?" Adrian, Jenny's colleague asked.

"Yeah, if you can call it that." Jenny said, looking over her shoulder.

"Did you get the car keys off her?" Adrian asked, and Jenny grinned.

"Got 'em out of her bag." Jenny flashed him the keychain. Adrian smiled, satisfied and then looked at the dance hall, frowning.

"Where is she?" Adrian asked, looking around. Beth had disappeared.

Beth had managed to slip out of the party and away from her aides and out onto the dark street outside. She rooted through her handbag, but her keys were long gone, sighing Beth looked around feeling helpless.

Later that night, Beth was stone cold sober, and crying her eyes out inside a port-a-cabin that sat on an empty construction site. She held out her hand and grasped a small bottle containing three capsules. Less than an hour later, Beth became the third suicide.

* * *

Detective Inspector Lestrade sat at a table, looking uncomfortable as the Press Conference began. His colleague, Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan, sat down beside him and began to address the reporters.

"The body of Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Transport, was found late last night on a building site in Greater London. Preliminary investigations suggest that this was suicide." Donovan said into the mike, and took a breath.

"We can confirm that this apparent suicide closely resembles those of Sir Jeffrey Patterson and James Phillimore. In the light of this, these incidents are now being treated as linked. The investigation is ongoing but Detective Inspector Lestrade will take questions now." Donovan finished. Immediately the journalists began to clamor for attention.

"Detective Inspector, how can suicides be linked?" A reporter belted out.

"Well, they all took the same poison; um, they were all found in places they had no reason to be; none of them had shown any prior indication of..." Lestrade said, before being interrupted by the same reporter.

"But you can't have serial suicides." At this, Lestrade looked annoyed.

"Well, apparently you can." He told the reporter, trying to ignore the young woman who had just slunk into the back of the room.

"These three people: there's nothing that links them?" A second reporter asked. Lestrade sighed, and the woman at the back of the room suppressed a smile.

"There's no link been found yet, but we're looking for it. There has to be one." Lestrade said, sounding like he was trying to convince himself more so than the reporters. It was then that all the mobiles in the room sounded out an alert. A simultaneous text had been sent. The dark-haired girl at the back at the room suppressed a grin.

Every phone in the room said the same thing: 'Wrong!'

"If you've all got texts, please ignore them." Donovan said, looking at her own phone which displayed the same message.

"Just says, 'Wrong'." The first reporter informed her, and Donovan grimaced. _He_ was at it again.

"Yeah, well, just ignore that." Donovan told him, and then turned to address the group as a whole.

"Okay, if there are no more questions for Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'm going to bring this session to an end." She said, but the second reporter spoke up again.

"But if they're suicides, what are you investigating?" He asked her. Luckily, Lestrade intervened.

"As I say, these... these suicides are clearly linked. Um, it's... it's an unusual situation. We've got our best people investigating..." He told them, and every phone in the room trilled once more. Every message read: 'Wrong!'

"Says, 'Wrong' again." The first reporter said, puzzled. Lestrade looked to Donovan, clearly at his wits end.

"One more question." Donovan told the reporters.

"Is there any chance that these are murders, and if they are, is this the work of a serial killer?" A third reporter spoke up, this one was a woman.

"I ... I know that you like writing about these, but these do appear to be suicides. We know the difference. The, um, the poison was clearly self-administered." Lestrade said, trying to be gentle.

"Yes, but if they are murders, how do people keep themselves safe?" The reported persisted. Lestrade, who was entirely fed up with the situation put his foot in his mouth.

"Well, don't commit suicide." He said snarkily. The reporter in question looked scandalized, and Donovan covered her mouth before leaning closer to him.

"Daily Mail." Donovan warned him, and Lestrade grimaced before looking back to the female reporter.

"Obviously this is a frightening time for people, but all anyone has to do is exercise reasonable precautions. We are all as safe as we want to be." Lestrade tried to reassure the room. But the mobiles trilled again. Once again, the phone's all read the phrase: 'Wrong!', all but one. Lestrade's phone bore a different message.

**You know where to find me. SH**

Lestrade shook his head, looking severely exasperated, and replaced his phone back in his pocket. He stood up, and looked around at the gathered reporters. They were done here.

"Thank you." Lestrade said, ending the conference. As they walked out of the room, Donovan turned to Lestrade.

"You've got to stop him doing that. He's making us look like idiots." She hissed, and Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"Well, if you can tell me how he does it, I'll stop him." He told her, frowning as the dark-haired girl from earlier sauntered over to join them.

"What now?" Lestrade demanded, once she was close enough.

"Nothing." Came the innocent reply. The smirk playing on the girls face said otherwise.

"Kestrel." Lestrade bit out, clearly irritated. Behind him Donovan rolled her eyes.

"He's bored." Kestrel said with a grin, and then turned on her heel to walk out of the office. Lestrade let out a sigh of frustration as she did so, frowning at the looks she garnered from the younger men in the office. He whistled sharply, jerking them out of their collective trance, before turning back to Donovan. Why did his baby sister have to be so annoying?

* * *

Done with the therapy session, John limped through Russell Square Park as fast as he could, leaning on his cane for support. As he walked past a man on a bench, he failed to notice the man staring after him, having recognized him.

"John! John Watson!" The voice rang out clearly, and surprised, John turned. It was a large man around his age who stood up and hurried over toward him, a smile clear on his face.

"Stamford. Mike Stamford. We were at Bart's together." The large man said, offering his hand. John blinked for a moment.

"Yes, sorry, yes, Mike." John said, before taking the offered hand, and shaking it.

"Hello, hi." John said, trying to place the name. Mike grinned and gestured to himself.

"Yeah, I know. I got fat!" He told John.

"No." John said, trying, and failing, to sound as if he didn't believe it.

"I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at. What happened?" Mike asked, and there was an awkward silence before John said:

"I got shot." They both looked highly embarrassed about the whole deal. Not long after, they were sitting down, side by side on a park bench, both with a take-away cup of coffee clutched in a hand. Mike looked at John, clearly worried, but John ignored him and took a sip from his coffee and sighing before looking back at his old friend.

"Are you still at Bart's, then?" John asked him, Mike nodded.

"Teaching now. Bright young things, like we used to be. God, I hate them!" Mike told him and they shared a laugh.

"What about you? Just staying in town 'til you get yourself sorted?" Mike asked him. John shook his head.

"I can't afford London on an Army pension." John told him with a sad look in his eye.

"Ah, and you couldn't bear to be anywhere else. That's not the John Watson I know." Mike said in what was meant to be an understanding tone.

"Yeah, I'm not the John Watson..." John trailed off and Mike looked away, awkwardly, and drank his coffee. As he did so, John switched his cup to his right hand, glancing down at the tremors that had overtaken his left one. He clenched his fist in an attempt to control the tremor as Mike looked back to him.

"Couldn't Harry help?" Mike asked him. John suppressed a snort.

"Yeah, like that's gonna happen!" He told Mike sarcastically. Mike shrugged.

"I dunno – get a flatshare or something?" He suggested, and this time John did snort.

"Come on – who'd want me for a flatmate?" John exclaimed and Mike chuckled, thoughtfully.

"What?" John asked him.

"Well, you're the second person to say that to me today." Mike told him, once he had stopped laughing. This caught John's attention.

"Who was the first?" He asked. It was a question that would change his life forever.

* * *

In the morgue of St. Bartholomew's Hospital, a strange and unusual man called Sherlock Holmes unzipped a black body bag, peered inside to take a look at the corpse, and sniffed loudly.

"How fresh?" Sherlock asked, and the morgue assistant, Molly Hooper, walked over.

"Just in. Sixty-seven, natural causes." She told him, and then added:

"He used to work here. I knew him. He was nice." She smiled sadly. Sherlock zipped up the bag, straightened up, turned to her and gave an unconvincing smile.

"Fine. We'll start with the riding crop." Sherlock said in a detached tone. It wasn't long before the body had been removed from the bag and laid on it's back on a table. Molly watched from an observation room next door as Sherlock beat the body in a violent and highly agitated manner. She flinched with each blow, but still watched Sherlock with a look of admiration, if not adoration on her face. Once he was done, she rejoined him in the main room that held the body.

"So, bad day, was it?" Molly asked, attempting to make a joke. Sherlock chose to ignore it and, instead of replying, he pulled out a notebook which he immediately began to write in.

"I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes. A man's alibi depends on it. Text me." Sherlock told her in a business-like tone. Hesitantly, Molly tried again.

"Listen, I was wondering: maybe later, when you're finished..." She began. Sherlock glanced over at her over the top of his notebook, did a double take, and frowned.

"Are you wearing lipstick? You weren't wearing lipstick before." He asked her, cutting across her sentence.

"I, er, I refreshed it a bit." Molly said nervously, a blatant lie which Sherlock took in his stride. She smiled at him in a flirtatious manner, and Sherlock chose to give her a long look, obviously missing the subtext somehow before going back to his writing.

"Sorry, you were saying?" Sherlock asked her, carrying on with his tidy writing, and Molly gathered her confidence once more.

"I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee." Molly said, watching him studiously. Sherlock put his notepad away.

"Black, two sugars, please. I'll be upstairs." He told her dismissively, and walked away.

"...Okay." Molly said in small voice. That was _not_ what she had meant.

* * *

Several floors up from the morgue, Sherlock moved around the complicated lab with a practised ease as he listened to the chatter of his old, not-friend, Kestrel Lestrade.

"You're driving him spare, you know. That texting thing you do." She told him, and when Sherlock looked up at her she was grinning broadly.

"It's a talent of mine." He told her with a wry smile.

"Here, hold this." He told her, and she moved across the complicated lab to hold a petri dish still for him while he gently squeezed the pipette he was holding. As he did so, there came a knock on the door, and Mike Stamford walked in, another man trailing behind him, a severe limp evident in his right leg. Kestrel gave them a smile and handed the petri dish to Sherlock, who had looked up briefly at the newcomers before returning to his work. The injured man looked around the room, staring at all the up-scale equipment before saying:

"Well, bit different from my day."

"You've no idea!" Mike said, chuckling as Sherlock sat down and peered through the microscope.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine." Sherlock asked, still not verbally acknowledging John.

"And what's wrong with the landline?" Mike asked, confused.

"I prefer to text." Sherlock said bluntly. Mike patted himself down, but with no results.

"Sorry. It's in my coat. Why can't you use hers?" Mike asked, pointing at Kestrel who smiled impishly.

"She bites." Sherlock said, clearly not willing to elaborate. John, ever the polite one, fished around in his pocket and then pulled out his own phone and handed it to Sherlock.

"Er, here. Use mine." John said.

"Oh. Thank you." Sherlock said, looking to Mike, before standing and walking over to John.

"It's an old friend of mine, John Watson." Mike said, by way of an introduction. Sherlock took the phone from John and turned away slightly to slide open the phone and type rapidly.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock asked as he hit the tiny buttons, and John frowned. Behind him Kestrel shared a knowing look with Mike. John looked to them for help as Sherlock ignored him and continued to type.

"Uh- Rude!" Kestrel coughed loudly, and shot John an apologetic look.

"Sorry?" John asked Sherlock, clearly lost.

"Which was it – Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock asked again, eyes flicking up to John before returning to the phone. John hesitated, and looked back at Mike who smiled smugly.

"Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know...?" John asked him, blinking, completely confused.

"I'm sorry, I've been trying to train him, honest. Unfortunately a spray bottle isn't very effective." Kestrel told him as Molly came into the room holding a mug of coffee, and Sherlock looked up upon scenting the caffeinated drink.

"Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you." Sherlock said, and shut John's phone before handing it back to him. Sherlock watched Molly closely as she crossed the room to hand him the white mug. The lipstick from earlier was gone.

"What happened to the lipstick?" Sherlock asked, watching her closely. Molly gave him an awkward smile.

"It wasn't working for me." She told him. Ever the social-moron, Sherlock stuck his foot in his mouth.

"Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth's too small now." He told her, walking back to his seat where he sat and drank from the mug, grimacing at the horrid taste.

"...Okay." Molly said, hopes dashed once more as she turned and went back through the door.

"How do you feel about the violin?" Sherlock asked, and John looked around. Kestrel was staring at her nails, Molly had left and Mike was watching him rather smugly. The process of elimination meant that Sherlock was talking to him.

"I'm sorry, what?" John asked, now completely lost, and Kestrel had to stifle a laugh.

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end." Sherlock said, looking round at John, now typing away at a keyboard.

"Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." Sherlock said, and threw John a disgustingly fake smile. John could only look on, a blank expression in place, before finally turning to Mike.

"Oh, you ... you told him about me?" John asked Mike uncertainly. Mike gave him an amused look.

"Not a word." Mike told him, and John turned back to Sherlock.

"Then who said anything about flatmates?" John asked.

"I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't that difficult a leap." Sherlock told him, already bored and picked up his great coat before putting it on.

"How did you know about Afghanistan?" John asked, rather shocked at the deduction. Sherlock chose to ignore the question, and instead wrapped his scarf around his neck, handed Kestrel her white raincoat and picked up his mobile to check it for messages. There were none.

"Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it." Sherlock told him in a rather blasé tone.

"We'll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o'clock. Sorry – gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." Sherlock said, returning his own mobile to its home in the inside pocket of his coat.

"Don't ask." Kestrel told John, who looked rather confused.

"Is that it?" John asked, turning to look at Sherlock who walked past him toward the door where Kestrel stood waiting.

"Is that what?" Sherlock asked, turning back from the door to step closer to John once more.

"We've only just met and we're gonna go and look at a flat?" John asked in disbelief.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked him. John looked to Kestrel, who was studiously flicking through her own text messages, and then looked to Mike for help. Nothing.

"We don't know a thing about each other; I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your name." John protested. Sherlock watched him closely, and then quickly rattled off his deductions.

"I know you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him – possibly because he's an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic – quite correctly, I'm afraid." Sherlock said, summing up John in less than a minute flat. At this, John looked down at his leg and shuffled his feet awkwardly.

"That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" Sherlock told him smugly. Sensing no reply, he turned once more and strode to the door, opening it and walking through, but leaning back through the doorway to add one final comment.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is two two one B Baker Street. Oh, and this is Kestrel Lestrade. She's my 'not-friend'." Sherlock told him, winked, and then turned to Mike.

"Afternoon." Sherlock said dryly, and Mike gave him the bird as he left the room, Kestrel following close behind him with a spring in her step. As the door slammed shut behind the pair, John turned to Mike, a look of stunned disbelief on his face. Mike could only grin and nod.

"Yeah. He's always like that." Mike told him, clearly having found the entire debacle more amusing than day-time television. Git.

Later that afternoon, John had returned to his bedsit. He sat down on his bed, still in a minor state of shock and pulled out his phone. He flicked through the contents until her arrived at the last message sent. It simply read:

**If brother has green ladder,** **arrest brother.** **SH**

Confused, John could only sit and stare at the message, before finally getting up and heading to his laptop. After a few moments longer, which involves manoeuvring himself into the chair in front of the desk, he pulled up a search engine and typed in a query: Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

Victim Number Four was different from the others. She sat in an empty room in an old house, wearing a pink overcoat that matched her high-heeled shoes. Slowly, she reached down with a shaking hand to pick up a small bottle, which like the rest, contained three capsules. The others that had come before her, had gone sobbing and incoherent, but Victim Number Four was different. She took one of the pills, and then, as it began to cause her slow and painful death, she left a message.

_RACHE..._

* * *

The next day, John limped along Baker Street, and made his way to the black door marked 221B as a black taxi cab pulled up alongside the kerb. John knocked on the door as Sherlock climbed out of the cab. Kestrel in tow once more.

"Hello." Sherlock said to John, and then leant through the window of the taxi to pay the driver.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes. Hello again Miss Lestrade." John said, walking over to the pair.

"Sherlock, please." Sherlock told him as they shook hands.

"Well, this is a prime spot. Must be expensive." John commented, looking at the street they were on.

"Oh, Mrs Hudson, the landlady, she's giving me a special deal. Owes me a favour. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out." Sherlock said nonplussed.

"Sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?" John asked him.

"Oh no. He ensured it." Kestrel told him. John stared at them, and they both smiled at John as Mrs. Hudson opened the door and held out her arms to Sherlock.

"Sherlock, hello." Mrs. Hudson pulled him into a hug, before he stepped back to introduce her to John.

"Mrs Hudson, Doctor John Watson." He said simply.

"Hello." Mrs. Hudson said to John.

"How do you do?" John said politely.

"Come in." Mrs. Hudson said, inviting them in.

"Thank you." John said politely, waiting for her to enter first.

"Shall we?" Sherlock asked, gesturing to the door.

"Yeah." John nodded as Mrs. Hudson held the door open for the three of them to walk in. Sherlock bounded up the staircase first, followed by Kestrel and John brought up the rear with Mrs. Hudson, both of them walking slower. As John reached the top of the stairs, Sherlock opened the door to the living room and Kestrel shot past him, draping herself over one of the armchairs in the room and snuggling down for a 20 minute power nap. Sherlock walked in, followed by John who looked around the room that was full of boxes of possessions and such.

"Well, this could be very nice. Very nice indeed." John said as they walked into the flat.

"Yes. Yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely." Sherlock told him as he looked around happily.

"So I went straight ahead and moved in." He added.

"Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out ... Oh." John said, and then realized what Sherlock had said.

"So this is all ..." John trailed off, looking embarrassed.

"Well, obviously I can, um, straighten things up a bit." Sherlock said, walking across the room and piling papers onto of one-another in a half-hearted attempt to clean up. As he did so, John looked around the room until something on the mantelpiece gave him reason to pause.

"That's a skull." John said, pointing out the obvious.

"Friend of mine. When I say 'friend'..." Sherlock said flippantly, and then trailed off.

"What do you think, then, Doctor Watson? There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms." Mrs. Hudson said, having followed them into the room.

"Of course we'll be needing two." John said in a scandalized tone.

"Oh, don't worry; there's all sorts round here." Mrs. Hudson reassured him, and then dropped her tone.

"Mrs Turner next door's got married ones." She whispered, and Kestrel cackled at the look on John's face. John looked to Sherlock, obviously waiting for him to confirm that they were _so_ not involved, but Sherlock ignored him. Rolling her eyes, Mrs. Hudson walked into the kitchen, only to stop and turn to Sherlock with a small frown on her face.

"Oh, Sherlock. The mess you've made." Mrs. Hudson fussed as she walked into the kitchen and began to try and tidy things up. John looked around for a moment, before walking over to the armchair that was Kestrel-free and dropped down into it, watching Sherlock who was still tidying up.

"I looked you up on the internet last night." John admitted, and Kestrel smiled – this would be fun.

"Anything interesting?" Sherlock asked, turning to face him.

"Found your website, The Science of Deduction." John commented. Sherlock smiled, clearly proud of it.

"What did you think?" He asked, and John gave him a look that read: You're kidding, right? Sherlock looked hurt.

"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb." John said, clearly not believing a word of it.

"Yes; and I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone." Sherlock pointed out.

"How?" John asked. Sherlock smiled and turned away, not saying a word. Mrs. Hudson walked out of the kitchen, her face buried in the newspaper.

"What about these suicides then, Sherlock? I thought that'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same." She asked him. But Sherlock was busy staring out of the window.

"Four." Kestrel said quietly, having got up to join Sherlock. The pair of them stared intently down at the street. Beneath them, a police car had pulled up, lights flashing wildly.

"There's been a fourth. And there's something different this time." Sherlock said, confirming Kestrel's statement.

"A fourth?" Mrs. Hudson asked, confused. Sherlock and Kestrel turned to watch Lestrade pound up the staircase behind Mrs. Hudson – apparently, they had left the door adjar downstairs.

"Where?" Sherlock asked as soon as Lestrade had set foot in the lounge, his tone was strict and to the point.

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens." Lestrade told them, looking around the room.

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different." Sherlock said, immediately scrutinizing him.

"You know how they never leave notes?" Lestrade asked.

"Yeah." Sherlock said, trying not to get his hopes up.

"This one did." That got Sherlock's attention.

"Will you come?" Lestrade told him, shifting his weight anxiously.

"Who's on forensics?" Sherlock asked, trying to decide on a rating for the case.

"It's Anderson." Lestrade answered reluctantly and Sherlock grimaced.

"Anderson won't work with me." Sherlock said grumpily.

"Wanker." Kestrel muttered under her breath – she didn't like Anderson either.

"Well, he won't be your assistant." Lestrade said, as if that would make all the difference.

"I need an assistant." Sherlock huffed.

"Why can't you use Kestrel?" Lestrade asked, impatient.

"Can't. She's the distraction." Sherlock told him, reminding Lestrade of how Kestrel had a knack for dazzling the suspects into compliance. Lestrade sighed, frustrated.

"Will you come?" He asked, and Sherlock looked out the window once more.

"Not in a police car. I'll be right behind." Sherlock told him.

"Thank you." Lestrade said gratefully. He looked around at the people in the room once more, before turning and quickly fleeing down the stairs. Sherlock managed to contain himself until Lestrade had gone out the front door before leaping into the air, his fists clenched in triumph.

"Brilliant! Yes! Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas!" Sherlock exclaimed, dancing about the room. He picked up his scarf and coat, putting them on as he walked toward the kitchen.

"Mrs. Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food." Sherlock declared.

"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper." Mrs. Hudson reminded him gently, which he ignored.

"Something cold will do. John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up!" Sherlock said, grabbing a small pouch and going through the kitchen door. Kestrel waited by the window. Sherlock hadn't quite realized yet that he had forgotten something vitally important. As soon as he was gone, Mrs. Hudson turned back to John.

"Look at him, dashing about! My husband was just the same." She told him, once again implying that they were a couple. John grimaced, not pleased of the thought of a relationship with Sherlock. He was as straight as a flagpole, thank you very much.

"But you're more the sitting-down type, I can tell." Mrs. Hudson said, lost in her memories. At this, John looked uncomfortable. Mrs. Hudson shook herself out of the daydream and turned back around to face the door.

"I'll make you that cuppa. You rest your leg." She told him in her soft voice.

"Damn my leg!" John exclaimed loudly, going on instinct, and Mrs. Hudson looked back at him, clearly shocked at his outburst.

"Sorry, I'm so sorry. It's just sometimes this bloody thing..." John apologized, frustrated, bashing his leg with his cane. Mrs. Hudson smiled sympathetically.

"I understand, dear; I've got a hip." She told him, turning back to the door.

"Cup of tea'd be lovely, thank you." John admitted gratefully.

"Just this once, dear. I'm not your housekeeper." Mrs. Hudson said gently.

"Couple of biscuits too, if you've got 'em." John replied cheekily, unfolding the newspaper.

"Not your housekeeper!" Mrs. Hudson shouted as she went down the stairs. John picked up the abandoned newspaper that Mrs. Hudson had been reading earlier, and opened it to the article on Beth Davenport's supposed suicide. He flicked partway through it, down to where a photo id's D.I Lestrade as the Detective working the case, but before he could continue - Sherlock walked back into the room.

"You're a doctor. In fact you're an Army doctor." Sherlock said, remembering his previous deductions of the man. Kestrel suppressed a smirk. Took him long enough.

"Yes." John confirmed, getting to his feet as Sherlock walked back into the room again.

"Any good?" Sherlock asked, curious.

"Very good." John said proudly.

"Seen a lot of injuries, then; violent deaths?" Sherlock pushed.

"Mmm, yes." John admitted.

"Bit of trouble too, I bet." Sherlock added, and behind them Kestrel grinned.

"Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much." John said quietly, trying to be proper.

"Wanna see some more?" Sherlock tested. He was not disappointed.

"Oh God, yes." John said fervently, and Sherlock grinned, spinning on his heel and leading John out of the room and down the stairs. Kestrel right behind them like a loyal sheepdog.

"Sorry, Mrs Hudson, I'll skip the tea. Off out." John called as they reached the bottom of the staircase.

"All of you?" Mrs. Hudson asked. Sherlock turned back from where he had been standing by the front door, and walked toward her quickly.

"Impossible suicides? Four of them? There's no point sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!" Sherlock told her, pulling her into a hug and kissing her cheek.

"Look at you, all happy. It's not decent." Mrs. Hudson said disapprovingly, but she still smiled as they made their way to the front door.

"Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!" Sherlock said happily, walking out onto the street to hail a black cab.

"Taxi!" Sherlock shouted, his arm raised. Almost immanently a Taxi pulled up alongside the curb, and the trio climbed in. They sat in silence for a while, John watching Sherlock nervously. Finally, Sherlock caved.

"Okay, you've got questions." Sherlock said – it didn't take a genius to figure that one out.

"Yeah, where are we going?" John asked, curious.

"Crime scene. Next?" Kestrel said in a chipper tone.

"Who are you? What do you do?" John said, getting straight to the point.

"What do you think?" Sherlock asked.

"I'd say private detective..." John said slowly, as if he could see something that would be a problem with that.

"But?" Sherlock asked, catching the pause.

"...but the police don't go to private detectives." John finished. Sherlock waved it off.

"I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job." He told John proudly.

"What does that mean?" John wanted to know.

"It means that whenever the police are completely lost, which is quite often, they call him." Kestrel said, nodding at Sherlock. John looked confused.

"The police don't consult amateurs." He said, and Sherlock almost looked offended.

"When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said, "Afghanistan or Iraq?" You looked surprised." Sherlock said.

"Yes, how did you know?" John asked him.

"I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. But your conversation as you entered the room said that you trained at Bart's, so Army doctor – obvious. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing." Sherlock told him and then pointed to his injured leg.

"Your limp's really bad when you walk but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan – Afghanistan or Iraq." He finished up, but John pushed deeper.

"You said I had a therapist." John reminded him.

"You've got a psychosomatic limp – of course you've got a therapist." Sherlock told him in a blasé tone.

"Then there's your brother." He added.

"Hmm?" John made a noise of interest, and Sherlock held out his hand.

"Your phone. It's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player, but you're looking for a flatshare – you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then." John handed him the phone, and Sherlock began to check it over as he talked.

"Scratches. Not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy. You know it already." Sherlock said.

"The engraving." John confirmed. On the back of the phone, clearly visible, was the message:

**Harry Watson**

**From Clara** **xxx**

"Harry Watson: clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is." Sherlock paused for breath.

"Now, Clara. Who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently – this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then – six months on he's just given it away. If she'd left him, he would have kept it. People do – sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you: that says he wants you to stay in touch." Sherlock stopped to give him a look.

"You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help: that says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you don't like his drinking." He finished up, and John could only stare in amazement.

"How can you possibly know about the drinking?" John asked, stunned. Sherlock grinned again.

"Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection: tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone; never see a drunk's without them." He pointed to the marks on the phone and then handed the phone back to him.

"There you go, you see – you were right." Kestrel told him with a smile.

"I was right? Right about what?" John asked, confused.

"The police don't consult amateurs." Sherlock told him dryly, and looked out of the window. To anybody who didn't know him, they would see a man who didn't care, but in reality, he was nervously awaiting John's reaction.

"That... was amazing." John finally managed to say, and Sherlock look around, actually surprised. Kestrel smiled. This one was a keeper.

"Do you think so?" Sherlock asked, genuinely shocked.

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary." John told him, highly impressed.

"That's not what people normally say." Sherlock admitted.

"What do people normally say?" John asked him, and Kestrel sniggered. Sherlock shot her a hurt look.

"Piss off'!" Sherlock admitted, and smiled at John who grinned in return and turned to look out of the window. It didn't take long for the cab to arrive at Lauriston Gardens in Brixton, and they jumped out quickly, heading over to the house that had been cordoned off by the ever-annoying neon yellow tape.

"Did I get anything wrong?" Sherlock asked.

"Harry and me don't get on, never have. Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce; and Harry is a drinker." John admitted and Sherlock looked very pleased with himself.

"Spot on, then. I didn't expect to be right about everything." Sherlock said happily.

"And Harry's short for Harriet." John added, deflating Sherlock in a flash. Sherlock actually stopped walking.

"Harry's your sister?" He asked John in disbelief. John kept walking, nonplussed.

"Look, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?" He asked Sherlock, who was busy beating himself up.

"Sister!" Sherlock hissed through gritted teeth. Kestrel smiled.

"No, seriously, what am I doing here?" John asked him, but was once again ignored as Sherlock began to walk away, clearly annoyed.

"There's always something." He muttered to himself as they approached the police tape where Sergeant Donovan was waiting.

"Hello, freak." Donovan said, greeting Sherlock.

"Bitch." Kestrel acknowledged and Donovan scowled.

"I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade." Sherlock said, ignoring the glares shared by the two women.

"Why?" Donovan demanded, irritated.

"I was invited." Sherlock told her, a smug smile in place. Behind him, Kestrel coughed loudly.

"Sorry. _We_ were invited." He said, gesturing to John and Kestrel.

"Why?" Donovan repeated, clearly not eager to let them in.

"I think he wants me to take a look." Sherlock said sarcastically.

"Well, you know what I think, don't you?" Donovan said with a bite in her voice.

"Nobody gives a toss Donovan." Kestrel said, lazily. Sherlock could only grin.

"Course I do. Always will. I even know you didn't make it home last night." Sherlock said, taking in a deep breath through his nose as he lifted the police tape and ducked underneath.

"I don't..." Donovan tripped over her words and then redirected herself.

"Who's this?" She asked, looking at John who smiled weakly.

"Colleague of mine, Doctor Watson." Sherlock said, turning to look at John.

"Doctor Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan." He said by way of an introduction.

"Sally here is an old friend." He added, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"A colleague? How do you get a colleague?!" Donovan asked, a look of disdain clear on her face.

"What, did he follow you home?" Donovan demanded of John who quailed under her gaze. Kestrel growled softly behind him.

"Would it be better if I just waited and..." John trailed off as Sherlock lifted the tape once more.

"No." Sherlock said, and Kestrel gave him a shove from behind. Reluctantly, John ducked under the tape. As he did so, Donovan raised her radio to her lips and said:

"Freak's here. Bringing him in." The radio could only crackle and whine in response. Donovan walked off toward the house, and the trio could only follow. As they walked, Sherlock was already scanning the area for clues. They had barely reached the old house, when a man dressed in forensic coveralls walked out of the house. A sneer decorated his face when he caught sight of them.

"Ah, Anderson. Here we are again." Sherlock said, clearly not impressed.

"It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?" Anderson said, still sneering at them. Once more, Sherlock inhaled deeply, and then grinned.

"Quite clear. And is your wife away for long?" He asked. Anderson frowned, peeved.

"Oh, don't pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that." He said disbelieving. Sherlock's grin grew wider.

"Your deodorant told me that." Sherlock told him, and Kestrel finally caught onto where this was going. It was all about the sniffing thing.

"My deodorant?" Anderson asked, not quite getting where this was going. Kestrel covered a smirk, and nudged John in the ribs. He too was lost.

"It's for men." Sherlock said, an amused look dancing on his face.

"Well, of course it's for men! I'm wearing it!" Anderson exclaimed, annoyed.

"Right…" Kestrel muttered under her breath and John had to stifle a laugh as he caught what she was saying.

"So's Sergeant Donovan." Sherlock told him, causing Anderson to look at Donovan, shock etched into his face as Sherlock sniffed loudly.

"Oh look – it's just vaporized." Kestrel said from where she stood next to Sherlock.

"D'you mind?" She asked, nodding to how Anderson stood between them and the door.

"Now look: whatever you're trying to imply..." Anderson started, pointing at him angrily before Sherlock smoothly interrupted him.

"I'm not implying anything." He grinned smugly.

"I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over." Sherlock quipped as he walked past Anderson toward Donovan, and then paused to turn back.

"And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees." He couldn't resist adding, before smiling smugly and walking on into the house. Anderson and Donovan both looked horrified, as John and Kestrel followed him. As they passed, John made a point of looking at Donovan's knees, and Kestrel started to laugh. Sherlock led them into a room on the ground floor, where Lestrade was waiting for them, already dressed.

"You need to wear one of these." Sherlock told John, nodding toward the coveralls.

"Who's this?" Lestrade wanted to know, looking at John. He was used to his baby sister tagging along now.

"He's with us." Sherlock told Lestrade, as he pulled his woolen gloves off.

"But who is he?" Lestrade pushed.

"I said he's with me." Sherlock said. Lestrade opened his mouth to push, but Kestrel cut him off.

"Greg – Just let it go." Lestrade glared at her balefully and she ignored him. Behind the siblings, John took off his jacket and picked up a coverall, he looked to Sherlock who had only taken a pair of rubber gloves.

"Aren't you gonna put one on?" John asked him, nodding to the pile of coveralls. Sherlock gave him _the look_ , and John wisely backed off wearing an expression that said something along the lines of: _Of course not. Why would you need one? How silly of me_.

"So where are we?" Sherlock asked Lestrade, impatient as ever.

"Upstairs." Lestrade said as he picked up another pair of latex gloves.

* * *

**18.02.2013**

**AN: I know, I know - I'm starting a new fic, while still being in the middle of Tripping Over Fools. Why? You ask? Because I seriously have an inability to focus on one thing alone and I had all the scripts for Sherlock, while transcribing the scripts for Primeval is taking some time. So sue me.**

**This morning I woke up at 5AM due to severe abdominal pains - Wth? It took me an hour just to make my way up the bed and turn the light on, I couldn't even sit up at all. What did I do to deserve it? Mother Nature and I shall be having strong words... that is, of course, once I beat the tar out of her. So do excuse my sporadicness.**

**As for Tripping Over Fools - Don't fear, I'm not abandoning it, I simply want to take a bit more time reviewing my thoughts on it.**

**As to John not being pleased with the implications of he and Sherlock sharing a sexual relationship, I have nothing against those who are otherwise inclined. Heck, I was even rooting for the same-sex marriage bill that just got passed. The simple fact behind this, is that it's never nice for people to just assume something about you, especially when there is no basis for it.**


	2. The Woman in Pink

**1.2: The Woman in Pink**

* * *

_" _We've got a serial killer on our hands. Love those, there's always something to look forward to._ "_

_\- Sherlock Holmes._

* * *

Lestrade led them up an annoyingly circular staircase, he and John were making the trek in their plain looking coveralls; Sherlock and Kestrel however, were not so good at playing by the rules. Sherlock had only deemed it necessary to don a pair of latex gloves, and even worse – Kestrel had refused to do even that as she had a latex allergy. She had, though, pulled her hair up into a secure ponytail to prevent it from getting all over the crime scene.

"I can give you two minutes." Lestrade told them, stopping one floor beneath the crime scene.

"May need longer." Sherlock said casually, breezing past him and up the stairs. Lestrade rolled his eyes, used to this kind of behavior by now.

"Her name's Jennifer Wilson according to her credit cards. We're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long. Some kids found her." Lestrade said, giving them the basic briefing before leading them into the room where the body lay.

The room was empty, save for an old rocking horse in the corner, its owner most likely long grown up, and possibly even in the ground by now. Portable lights had been set up around the body by the forensics team and there were scaffolding poles holding up part of the ceiling, put in place by a construction team when several large holes had been made in the wall. In the middle of the room, face-down, lay the body of Jennifer Wilson.

Even in death, she managed to stand out, dressed in a flamingo-pink overcoat and matching high-heels. Her hands were flat against the floor on either side of her head, an expensive looking engagement ring sat next to a wedding ring on her left ring finger. Sherlock walked further into the room, and took in the scene, focusing on the body in front of him. John watched him work, and then caught sight of the dead woman, his face twisted into an expression of sadness. Next to him, Kestrel looked on, her own face devoid of emotion. It was just one more body to add to the long list she'd seen over the past three years of tagging along with Sherlock; one more family for her brother to inform. They stood there in silence for several seconds before Sherlock turned to Lestrade and gave him a sharp look.

"Shut up." Sherlock barked, making both John and Lestrade jump.

"I didn't say anything." Lestrade said, startled.

"You were thinking. It's annoying." Sherlock told him, dodging Kestrel's elbow as she tried to jab him in the ribs.

While Lestrade shared a look with John that said: What was he smoking? Sherlock moved forward to stand next to the corps, and his attention was immediately drawn to the word "Rache" that was carved into the floor next to her hand.

Both her index and middle-finger nails were ragged and broken, a distinct difference to her other nails, which indicated that _she_ had been the one to carve the word into the floorboards. Sherlock's brain whirred into high gear. It was her left hand that had been used to carve the word, therefore she was left-handed. The word that had been left was "Rahche" – Sherlock's first thought was the German noun that meant Revenge, quickly he dismissed it. Looking at the word again, he concluded that the word was incomplete, and that she had most likely been writing the name: Rachel.

Squatting, he ran his gloved hand over her coat, and then looked at the tips of his fingers which were wet. Conclusion: She had been out in the rain. He ran his fingers over the folds of her coat and managed to locate a collapsible umbrella, which was dry. He checked the underside of her coat collar, and when he discovered it to be wet, he made his second conclusion. Clearly she had been out in the rain, but if she hadn't used the umbrella, it must have been too windy to do so.

Using his pocket-magnifier, he was able to inspect her jewelry. The golden bracelet that decorated her left wrist was clean. So was the gold earring visible on her left ear. The golden chain around her neck was also clean, but the rings on her left hand were not. Both the wedding ring and engagement ring were absolutely filthy, having obviously never been polished or properly taken care of. Sherlock blinked. This meant that she was obviously married, unhappily married at that, and most likely for at least 10 years if not more.

Carefully, he worked the wedding ring off of her finger; luckily, her finger was still slightly flexible as rigor mortis was still setting in. The inside of the ring was clean, a stark contrast to the outside, which was still dirty. The only reason for this would be if it had been removed often, which could only mean one thing: This woman was… had been, a serial adulteress. Sherlock smiled like the cat that had gotten the cream.

"Got anything?" Lestrade asked, impatient.

"Not much." Sherlock told him in a nonchalant tone. Kestrel smiled. When Sherlock says 'Not much' it really means 'I know lots, but I want to make you beg.' Sherlock stood up and removed his gloves, before reaching into his coat for his phone.

Anderson, who had somehow ended up leaning against the door, decided to add his two cents.

"She's German. 'Rache': it's German for 'revenge'. She could be trying to tell us something…" The moment that Anderson had begun to speak, Sherlock had shot Kestrel a look. Nodding, she walked across the room, from where she had been waiting by the window and took great pleasure in slamming the door in Anderson's face. Had he stayed put a second longer, his nose would have been broken. No such luck.

"Yes, thank you for your input." Sherlock said dryly to the closed door, and then returned to his phone, on which he had called up the weather reports for the UK. The menu offered five different choices: Maps, Local Weather, Warnings, Next 24 hrs, and a 7 day forecast. He selected the Maps.

"So she's German?" Lestrade asked, looking for answers. Kestrel rolled her eyes.

"Of course not. Since when did we ask Anderson to use his brain?" Sherlock's mouth twitched.

"He's on forensics." Lestrade protested. Kestrel snorted.

"Yeah. And he does _such_ a great job at that." She muttered.

"She's from out of town, though. Intended to stay in London for one night... before returning home to Cardiff." Sherlock said, sliding his phone back into his pocket, having apparently found what he had been looking for.

"So far, so obvious." Sherlock announced, confusing the others.

"Sorry – obvious?" John asked, more than a little lost.

"What about the message, though?" Lestrade pestered, but Sherlock ignored him and focused on John.

"Doctor Watson, what do you think?" Sherlock asked.

"Of the message?" John queried and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Of the body. You're a medical man." Sherlock drawled. Lestrade's eyes went wide.

"Wait, no, we have a whole team right outside." He protested, and Sherlock snorted, not even bothering to disguise his mirth.

"They won't work with me." He reminded Lestrade, who tried to pull rank.

"I'm breaking every rule letting you in here." Lestrade reminded him.

"Yes... because you need me." Sherlock said smugly, and Lestrade stared at him for a moment, before lowering his eyes.

"Yes, I do. God help me." Lestrade muttered, and Sherlock turned back to John who was still examining the body.

"Doctor Watson." Sherlock said, still waiting on a reply.

"Hm?" John looked up at Sherlock and then at Lestrade, clearly looking for his consent. Lestrade held his gaze for a moment before tossing his hands in the air.

"Oh, do as he says. Help yourself." Lestrade said in a rather tetchy tone, before turning and opening the door behind him.

"Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes." Lestrade said as he stepped outside of the room, leaving the trio alone. As soon as the door shut, the two men moved to sit next to the body, John wincing as his leg caused him pain.

"Well?" Sherlock asked as Kestrel knelt down next to the body as well.

"What am I doing here?" John whispered frantically.

"Helping me make a point." Sherlock told him.

"He's supposed to be helping you pay the rent." Kestrel reminded them.

"Yeah, well, this is more fun." Sherlock told him.

"Fun? There's a woman lying dead." John said, scandalized.

"Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go deeper." Sherlock said grumpily.

"Ignore the emotional retard Mr. Watson" Kestrel said, smacking Sherlock upside the head. He winced.

"Ow! What was that for." Sherlock whined, momentarily sounding like a petulant child.

"For being an insensitive berk." She told him. The door opened, and Lestrade stood in the doorway. John shifted his weight so that he was comfortable before leaning down to get a better look at the dead woman. He sniffed at the immediate area around her head, drew back and lifted her right hand to look at her skin, and then sat back on his heels to face Sherlock

"Yeah... Asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can't smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure; possibly drugs." John told them.

"You know what it was. You've read the papers." Sherlock insisted.

"What, she's one of the suicides? The fourth...?" John asked. Lestrade walked back into the room.

"Sherlock – two minutes, I said. I need anything you've got." He insisted.

"Victim is in her late thirties. Professional person, going by her clothes; I'm guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It's obvious from the size of her suitcase." Sherlock told Lestrade.

"Suitcase?" Lestrade asked, and John scanned the room. There was no suitcase to be seen.

"Suitcase, yes." Sherlock confirmed.

"She's been married at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married." Sherlock continued to rattle off what he had learned.

"Oh, for God's sake, if you're just making this up..." Lestrade said, frustrated. Sherlock pointed down at the woman's ring finger.

"Her wedding ring. Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewelry has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside – that means it's regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger." Sherlock told him.

"It's not for work; look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands, so what or rather who does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover; she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple."

"That's brilliant." John said in admiration, causing Sherlock to look around at him.

"Sorry." John apologized quickly, looking away.

"Cardiff?" Lestrade asked, his mind still stuck on what Sherlock had said before.

"It's obvious, isn't it?" Sherlock insisted.

"It's not obvious to me." John told him.

"Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring." Sherlock said scathingly, before turning back to the body.

"Her coat: it's slightly damp." Kestrel said, having paid attention to what Sherlock had been looking at earlier. 3 years with a guy taught you what to watch out for. Sherlock grinned in triumph. At least _somebody_ paid attention to him.

"She's been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London in that time. Under her coat collar is damp, too. She's turned it up against the wind. She's got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket but it's dry and unused: not just wind, strong wind – too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance but she can't have travelled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn't dried." Sherlock told them, and pulled out his phone.

"So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time?" He showed them the webpage he had been browsing earlier.

"Cardiff?" Kestrel took a guess, referring to Sherlock's earlier conclusion. Sherlock grinned.

"That's fantastic!" John exclaimed, as it all sunk in.

"D'you know you do that out loud?" Kestrel asked, as Sherlock turned to stare at John again.

"Sorry. I'll shut up." John said, clearly embarrassed.

"No, it's ... fine." Sherlock said, not willing to admit that he was pleased to have somebody who didn't think him odd. Kestrel didn't count, the woman wandered around naked half the time for goodness sake.

"Why d'you keep saying suitcase?" Lestrade asked again. Sherlock focused and then spun around in a circle, looking for the elusive piece of luggage.

"Yes, where is it? She must have had a phone or an organiser. Find out who Rachel is." He said, already looking for the next piece of the puzzle.

"She was writing 'Rachel'?" Lestrade asked, now officially confused.

"No, she was leaving an angry note in German!" Kestrel quipped sarcastically, mocking Anderson's earlier suggestion. Annoying her big brother was so much fun!

"Of course she was writing Rachel; no other word it can be. Question is: why did she wait until she was dying to write it?" Sherlock insisted.

"How d'you know she had a suitcase?" Lestrade wanted to know. Sherlock only pointed to the back of the right leg. There were splash marks on the woman's tights.

"Back of the right leg: tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious: could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night." Sherlock said, squatting by the body once more in an attempt to get a better look at the splash marks.

"Now, where is it? What have you done with it?" Sherlock asked after the case.

"There wasn't a case." Lestrade told him, frowning. Sherlock looked up as Lestrade.

"Say that again." He said.

"There wasn't a case. There was never any suitcase." Lestrade informed him. Sherlock was out the door in a shot, and started down the stairs.

"Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?" He shouted, getting the attention of all the police force members. Lestrade and John went out onto the landing, and Kestrel pushed past Anderson to follow Sherlock on his helter skelter ride down the stairs.

"Sherlock, there was no case!" Lestrade shouted over the banister. Sherlock slowed down, but didn't stop.

"But they take the poison themselves; they chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs, even you lot couldn't miss them." Sherlock insisted.

"Right, yeah, thanks. And...?" Lestrade asked.

"It's murder, all of them. I don't know how, but they're not suicides, they're killings – serial killings." Sherlock said and held his hand up to his face, delighted. He didn't notice all the strange looks that the members of the Forensic team were giving him.

"We've got ourselves a serial killer. I love those. There's always something to look forward to." Sherlock said gleefully.

"Why are you saying that?" Lestrade asked, more than a little unnerved.

"Her case! Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it? Someone else was here, and they took her case." Sherlock shouted for the whole team to hear.

"So the killer must have driven her here; forgot the case was in the car." Sherlock said, quieter this time, as if he was speaking only for Kestrel and himself.

"She could have checked into a hotel, left her case there." John pointed out. Sherlock looked up at him once again.

"No, she never got to the hotel." He insisted.

"Look at her hair. She color-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking..." Sherlock trailed off as he came to a realization.

"Oh. Oh!" Sherlock clapped his hands together.

"Sherlock?" John asked, concerned at his new flat-mates behavior.

"What is it, what?" Lestrade asked, practically hanging over the railing.

"Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake." Sherlock said, grinning to himself.

"We can't just wait!" Lestrade shouted down the stairs.

"Oh, we're done waiting!" Sherlock shouted back, starting down the stairs again.

"Look at her, really look! Houston, we have a mistake. Get on to Cardiff: find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!" Sherlock shouted as he reached the ground floor, and disappeared.

"Of course, yeah – but what mistake?!" Lestrade shouted after him. Sherlock raced back into view and up the bottom few stairs before looking up at Lestrade.

"PINK!" Sherlock shouted, before hurrying off again, Kestrel right behind him as always. Baffled, Lestrade turned around and walked back into the room where Anderson and his team were setting up for their own investigation.

"Let's get on with it." Anderson said, closing the door behind him.

John stood alone on the landing, and after a moment of hesitation, he started down the stairs. A pair of police officers rushed upstairs, one of them bumping into him as they went, throwing him off balance in the process. He lurched against the banisters and the man hurried on, uncaring, his colleague shot John an apologetic look before following upstairs. John regained his balance and then continued on until he reached the ground floor.

It took him a few moments to wrestle the coverall off and put his jacket back on, but once he was done, he walked out onto the street. There was no sign of either Sherlock or Kestrel, so he walked over to where Donovan still stood by the taped line.

"They're gone." Donovan told him.

"Who, Sherlock Holmes?" John asked.

"Yeah, he just took off. 'im and his friend. They do that." She said, watching him carefully.

"Are they coming back?" John asked her, debating whether to turn in for the night or not.

"Didn't look like it." Donovan told him, sounding rather pleased.

"Right." John muttered, looking around the area, not quite sure what to do next.

"Right... Yes." He mumbled, and then turned back to Donovan.

"Sorry, where am I?" He asked her.

"Brixton." She said.

"Right. Er, d'you know where I could get a cab? It's just, er... well... my leg." John requested, looking down at his leg and then back up at her.

"Er… try the main road." She said, lifting the tape for him.

"Thanks." He said, ducking underneath the yellow line.

"But you're not his friend, are you?" Donovan said, and John turned back to face her.

"He doesn't have friends. Just Lestrade's sister. So who are you?" Donovan said, looking for an answer.

"I'm... I'm nobody. I just met them." John told her.

"Okay, bit of advice then: stay away from them." Donovan warned him.

"Why?" John asked, suspicious.

"You know why he's here? He's not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing round a body and Sherlock Holmes'll be the one that put it there, and that bloody Kestrel'll be defending 'im." Donovan said in a nasty tone.

"Why would he do that?" John asked her, confused. Donovan got a vicious look on her face.

"Because he's a psychopath. And psychopaths get bored." She told him coldly.

"Donovan!" It was Lestrade.

"Coming." She shouted back. But before she left she told him one last thing:

"Stay away from Sherlock Holmes."

John watched her walk away or a moment, before turning around and starting to walk down the road, his limp causing him trouble. As he passed a red phone-box it began to ring. He stopped for a moment to watch it, and then looked at his watch before shaking his head and continuing on down the road. The phone stopped ringing. He made it to the main road and tried to find a taxi.

"Taxi! Taxi..." John shouted in an attempt to hail a passing cab, but it drove on by. As he passed by a restaurant the payphone on the wall began to ring. John turned to watch as a staff member approached it, but it stopped ringing as the worked touched the handle. John continued down the road, brushing off the incident as coincidence. He walked down the main road until a third phone began to ring, this one was another red phone-box. He paused, and then pushed into the box and lifted the handle.

"Hello?" John asked the unknown caller, and a man's voice echoed over the phone.

"There is a security camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?" The unnamed man asked him.

"Who's this? Who's speaking?" John said, frowning.

"Do you see the camera, Doctor Watson?" The man asked again. John looked out through the glass panelling of the phone-box and caught sight of the CCTV camera mounted on the wall of a nearby building.

"Yeah, I see it." John answered.

"Watch." The man told him, and so he did. The camera that had been pointing at him suddenly swivelled away.

"There is another camera on the building opposite you. Do you see it?" The man said, and John looked across the street to see the second camera also pointing at him. He frowned again, more than a little unnerved.

"Mmm-hmm." John hummed an affirmative.

"And finally, at the top of the building on your right." The man instructed. John stared up at the third camera which also turned away.

"How are you doing this?" He demanded.

"Get into the car, Doctor Watson." The voice told him. John looked around, confused. What car? Before he had the chance to voice that thought, a black, unmarked car pulled up alongside the kerb. The driver climbed out and opened the back door, clearly waiting for somebody. _Oh._ _That car_.

"I would make some sort of threat, but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you." The mysterious man told him and the phone went dead.

John put the phone down carefully, and a pensive look came over his face. Finally, he decided that there wasn't much he could do to the contrary, and exited the phone-box before walking over to the car. He climbed in, and found himself sat next to a very attractive young woman who had her eyes fixed on the Blackberry in her hands. She typed away at it, her fingers clicking rapidly as she studiously ignored him.

"Hello." John said.

"Hi." She flashed him a bright smile and then refocused her attention on her phone.

"What's your name, then?" John asked.

"Er... Anthea." The woman said, as if she'd decided on the spot.

"Is that your real name?" John asked, catching the pause.

"No." She said with a smile. John nodded to himself and twisted around to look out the back window before turning back again.

"I'm John." He said, introducing himself.

"Yes. I know." 'Anthea' told him.

"Any point in asking where I'm going?" He asked her.

"None at all... John." She said, giving him another brief smile before going back to her phone.

"Okay." John muttered, accepting that she wasn't going to tell him anything.

The drive took him across London to an almost-empty warehouse. In the middle of the warehouse stood a man dressed in a black suit, leaning leisurely on an umbrella, also black. He watched John climb out of the car. In front of the strange man sat a straight-backed chair that faced him. He gestured to it with the tip of the umbrella as John made his way over to him.

"Have a seat, John." The mysterious man told him, leaning on the black umbrella. John ignored the request, and instead kept walking until he was only a few paces from the other man.

"You know, I've got a phone." John said, looking around the warehouse.

"I mean, very clever and all that, but er ... you could just phone me. On my phone." John told him, a hint of admiration in his voice.

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes and his little girlfriend, one learns to be discreet, hence this place." The stranger told him, his voice growing sterner as he spoke.

"The leg must be hurting you. Sit down." The stranger said again, his voice gave way to an impatience.

"I don't want to sit down." John said firmly, not comfortable with the situation. The stranger watched him carefully, curious.

"You don't seem very afraid." The stranger observed, and John quirked an eyebrow.

"You don't seem very frightening." He told the man, who chuckled.

"Ah, yes. The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?" The stranger said, giving John a look that said: Do stop being silly.

"What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?" The stranger asked, suddenly switching topics.

"I don't have one. I barely know him. I met him..." John said, stopping as he sifted through his thoughts. Had it really been such a short amount of time?

"...yesterday." John finished, tone vacant.

"Mmm, and since yesterday you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?" The stranger said sarcastically, knowing which buttons to push.

"Who are you?" John asked, irritated now.

"An interested party." The stranger told him.

"Interested in Sherlock? Why? I'm guessing you're not friends." John said, his body tensing up as he went on the alert.

"You've met him. How many 'friends' do you imagine he has? I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having. His little girlfriend doesn't count." The stranger told him.

"And what's that?" John asked, almost wishing that Kestrel were there to smack the stranger.

"An enemy." The stranger said.

"An enemy?" John tensed up again, immediately on the defensive.

"In his mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic." The stranger said knowingly, and John gave him a look that said: Are you serious?

"Well, thank God you're above all that." John said sarcastically, earning a frown as a reward. The silence that came afterwards was broken by the tinkling of John's phone as it announced that he had a text message. John immediately dug into the pockets of his jacket in search of the phone, pulled it out and turned on the screen. The message was only two sentences long:

**Baker Street.** **Come at once** **if convenient.** **SH**

"I hope I'm not distracting you."The stranger said sarcastically, eyeing the phone with an evident air of displeasure.

"No. Not distracting me at all." John said casually, deliberately taking a long while to put the phone back in its pocket. He wanted to irritate the man who had essentially kidnapped him.

"Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?" The stranger demanded.

"I could be wrong... but I think that's none of your business." John told him, frowning.

"It could be." The stranger said ominously.

"It really couldn't." John said, his voice cold as ice. The man pulled out a notebook from his inside pocket and opened it up, leafing through it until he found the entry he was after.

"If you do move into, um... two hundred and twenty-one B Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way." The stranger said, looking down at his notepad for reference, before putting it away again.

"Why?" John inquired.

"Because you're not a wealthy man." The stranger said bluntly.

"In exchange for what?" John said warily.

"Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel ... uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he's up to." The stranger said in an attempt to reassure him. It didn't work. **  
**

"Why?" John asked.

"I worry about him. Constantly." The stranger admitted. Odd behaviour for a supposed enemy.

"That's nice of you." John said sarcastically.

"But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a... difficult relationship." The stranger said, and John's phone trilled again. Another text. He pulled the phone out to see another message that said:

**If inconvenient,** **come anyway.** **SH**

"No." John said, looking up from the phone.

"But I haven't mentioned a figure." The stranger said, obviously confused.

"Don't bother." John said shortly, putting his phone away.

"You're very loyal, very quickly." The stranger said with a bark of laughter.

"No, I'm not. I'm just not interested." John told him. The stranger watched him closely for a moment, before taking out his notepad once more.

"'Trust issues,' it says here." The stranger told him, pointing to a section of the page he had been looking at, and John froze.

"What's that?" He asked, clearly unnerved. That was private information.

"Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?" The stranger asked him, still perusing the notepad.

"Who says I trust him?" John said, annoyed at the presumption.

"You don't seem the kind to make friends easily." The stranger said, looking him up and down.

"Are we done?" John asked tensely. The stranger lifted his head and locked gazes with him.

"You tell me." The stranger asked a glint in his eyes. John held his gaze for a long moment, before turning his back and walking away.

"I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see from your left hand that's not going to happen." The stranger mused. John stopped still. His body tensed up before quickly un-tensing and he shook his head in anger.

"My what?" John asked through gritted teeth.

"Show me." The stranger said calmly, nodding at John's left hand. His demeanor screamed that he was used to being obeyed instantly, but John, even having been in the military, was not easily cowed. He shifted his weight so that if the stranger wanted to see his hand, he would have to walk over there. The stranger rolled his eyes, and walked forward, slipping the hook of the umbrella over his right forearm as he approached John.

"Don't." John told him, teeth clenching as he yanked his hand back instinctively. The stranger lowered his hand and raised his eyebrows Reluctantly, John held out his and, holding it flat, his palm facing the floor. The stranger held it, examining it closely.

"Remarkable." The stranger commented, and John snatched his hand away.

"What is?" He demanded. The stranger turned and began to pace.

"Most people blunder round this city, and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield." The stranger said, and then turned to face John.

"But you've seen it already, haven't you?" He said. John frowned.

"What's wrong with my hand?" He asked.

"You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand." The stranger told him, John nodded his head absent-mindedly

"Your therapist thinks it's post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by memories of your military service." The stranger continued, ignoring John's flinches

"Who the hell are you? How do you know that?" John demanded, furious. The stranger, however, ignored him.

"Fire her. She's got it the wrong way round. You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady." The stranger told him, and John's eyes flicked down to his hand, before he had a chance to refocus his gaze.

"You're not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson... You miss it." The stranger concluded, and leant in closer. John unwittingly locked gazes with him.

"Welcome back." The stranger whispered, before walking away. Once more, John's phone trilled out an alert.

"Time to choose a side, Doctor Watson." The stranger called back, twirling his umbrella like a baton. John stood in the same spot, before turning slightly, watching the stranger walk through a door at the other end of the building. Behind him, the car door opened, and 'Anthea' got out. She walked over to him, eyes still fixed on the blackberry in her hand and said:

"I'm to take you home." 'Anthea' informed him. John turned 90 degrees to look at her, but stopped and pulled out his phone to read the message. It was one line.

**Could be dangerous. SH**

John put the phone back in his pocket and looked at his left hand. It didn't shake, and he made his decision, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Address?" 'Anthea' asked him. John turned and walked toward her.

"Er, Baker Street. 221B Baker Street. But I need to stop off somewhere first." He told her and she nodded.

The driver took them to the bedsit where John had been staying, and he slipped inside the room and turned on the light. Shutting the door behind him, John crossed the room to the desk and opened up the drawer containing his laptop. He pulled out the pistol and checked the clip quickly, before ensuring the safety was on and tucking it in to the waistband of his jeans.

Once it was secured, he walked out of the room again, turning the light off as he went. The car took him back to Baker Street. As it pulled up outside the flat, John turned to the woman next to him.

"Listen, your boss – any chance you could not tell him this is where I went?" John asked her, not really wanting the strange man to know his business.

"Sure." 'Anthea' said in a nonchalant tone, still absorbed in her phone.

"You've told him already, haven't you?" John said with a deadpan. She smiled at him briefly.

"Yeah." She admitted, and John nodded, resigned. He turned to get out of the car, but as he opened the door, he turned back to ask a question.

"Hey, um... do you ever get any free time?" John asked, obviously wondering if she had a boyfriend. 'Anthea' laughed quietly.

"Oh, yeah. Lots." 'Anthea' said sarcastically. John waited expectantly while she tapped away at her phone. She turned to look at him, and then past him at the door of 221B.

"'Bye." 'Anthea' said dismissively, and John looked away quickly.

"Okay." John said vacantly, as he climbed out of the vehicle. He watched the car pull away before making his way to the black door that declared itself to be 221B, before rapping the door knocker three times.

* * *

**19.02.2013**

**AN: Any queries involving this fic should be directed to: _aspenwilder at gmail dot com_**

**For those who want them, this is where I got the scripts: arianedevere dot livejournal dot com/36505 dot html**

**1) I know, I know - I'm starting a new fic, while still being in the middle of Tripping Over Fools. Why? You ask? Because I seriously have an inability to focus on one thing alone and I had all the scripts for Sherlock, while transcribing the scripts for Primeval is taking some time. So sue me.**

**2) I'm still not 100% better, blech, and am currently in the middle of a catfight with Mother Nature. I'm winning at the moment, but lord knows how long that'll last. Curse my genetics.**

**3)** **As for Tripping Over Fools - Don't fear, I'm not abandoning it, I simply want to take a bit more time reviewing my thoughts on it.**

**4) I'm tired, so I'm off to bed. I love you all, but seriously - Review. I need motivation, and it'd be nice to get some feedback once in a while.**


	3. Home Invasion

 

**1.3: Home Invasion**

* * *

_"Seriously. This guy, a junkie? Have you met him?"_

_\- John Watson_

* * *

Sherlock lay on the sofa in the living room, stretched out languidly. His eyes were closed as he applied pressure to the underside of his left arm, before releasing the pressure. He opened his eyes and exhaled, relaxed. As he did so, John walked through the door, only to stop and stare as Sherlock repeated his actions. Apply pressure, release and exhale. Apply pressure, release and exhale. Finally, John's curiosity got the better of him.

"What are you doing?" John asked, giving Sherlock an odd look from where he stood in the doorway.

"Nicotine patch. Helps me think." Sherlock told him calmly, pulling up his left sleeve to reveal three nicotine patches stuck on his forearm.

"Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work." He added.

"It's good news for breathing." John quipped, walking into the room.

"Oh, breathing. Breathing's boring." Sherlock said dismissively. John frowned as he looked closer at Sherlock's arm.

"Hang on. Is that three patches?" He asked. Sherlock clapped his hands together into a prayer position.

"It's a three-patch problem." Kestrel said from where she was lying, draped over an armchair on the other side of the room. Her eyes were closed, and every now and again, she let out a little humming noise.

"Well?" John asked, turning back to Sherlock. There was no response.

"You asked me to come. I'm assuming it's important." John reminded him. Sherlock sat in silence, not responding instantly, but a few a few moments, he opened his eyes again.

"Oh, yeah, of course. Can I borrow your phone?" Sherlock asked, not turning his head.

"My phone?" John said, clearly confused.

"Don't wanna use mine. Always a chance that the number will be recognised. It's on the website." Sherlock said, by way of an explanation. John frowned.

"Mrs. Hudson's got a phone." He said.

"Yeah, she's downstairs. I tried shouting but she didn't hear." Sherlock told him, ducking the scrunched up paper ball that Kestrel had thrown at him.

"Rude!" She scolded, and then went back to her… whatever she was doing.

"I was the other side of London." John said, anger starting to color his voice.

"There was no hurry." Sherlock told him in an offhand tone and John glared at him balefully. Sherlock, however, ignored him, choosing instead to shut his eyes once more. After a few more moments, John caved.

"Here." He said, pulling out the phone with a sigh. Without opening his eyes, Sherlock held out his hand for the phone, and John placed it in his hand with a baleful glower. Sherlock put his hands back together again, this time holding the phone between his palms.

"So what's this about – the case?" John asked him, starting to pace.

"Her case." Sherlock murmured softly, bowing his head.

"Her case?" John repeated blankly, not quite understanding.

"Her suitcase, yes, obviously. The murderer took her suitcase. First big mistake." Sherlock told him in a knowing voice.

"Okay, he took her case. So?" John said, growing impatient. Sherlock was ignoring him once again.

"It's no use, there's no other way. We'll have to risk it." Sherlock muttered to himself, mulling the situation over in his head. He held out the phone to John, who took it back, confused.

"On my desk there's a number. I want you to send a text." Sherlock told him, pointing to the desk.

"You brought me here... to send a text." John said, not quite believing him.

"Text, yes. The number on my desk." Sherlock confirmed, oblivious to John's ire. John glowered at him for several moments before finally stomping across the room to snatch the phone from Sherlock's hand, before walking to the window. Sherlock watched him carefully.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked, tilting his head to the right.

"Just met a friend of yours." John said vacantly, causing Sherlock to look around in alarm. There was a thud from behind John, as Kestrel fell of the couch in shock.

"A friend?" Sherlock asked him.

"You sure?" John turned to see Kestrel sprawled on the floor in an uncomfortable position, a dazed expression in place.

"An enemy." John elaborated, and Sherlock relaxed instantly.

"Oh. Which one?" Sherlock asked, ever-curious. John's eyes widened at this and opened his mouth. When nothing came out, he closed it and gathered his thoughts.

"Your arch-enemy, according to him." John said wanly, and then turned to Kestrel.

"Do people have arch-enemies?" Sherlock eyed him suspiciously.

"Did he offer you money to spy on me?" Sherlock asked him.

"Yes." John admitted reluctantly.

"Did you take it?" Kestrel questioned.

"No." John told them, annoyed. Kestrel grinned at him.

"Neither did I." She confessed.

"Pity. We could have split the fee. Think it through next time." Sherlock mused, still lying on the couch.

"Who is he?" John asked, wondering about the stranger.

"The most dangerous man you've ever met, and not my problem right now." Sherlock said evasively, ignoring Kestrel's laughter.

"On my desk, the number." Sherlock insisted, louder this time. John gave him a look which was ignored. He sighed and walked over to the desk to retrieve the paper. When he looked at it, he did a double-take.

"Jennifer Wilson. That was... Hang on. Wasn't that the dead woman?" John said, trying to piece it all together.

"Yes. That's not important. Just enter the number." Sherlock told him, waving a hand. John shook his head before opening up his phone and beginning to type in the number.

"Are you doing it?" Sherlock asked him, ever-impatient.

"Yes." John told him, tapping the keys.

"Have you done it?" Sherlock asked again, seconds later.

"Ye... hang on!" John snapped, frustrated.

"These words exactly: 'What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out.'" Sherlock dictated to him. John began to enter the message, glancing over to Kestrel as he did to ask a silent question. Kestrel shrugged in response. Sherlock ignore the pair, and finished his narration:

"You blacked out?" John asked him, frowning as he stopped midsentence.

"What? No. No!" Sherlock said quickly, jerking his head over to look at John. He stood up, and instead of walking around the table like a regular person, he went _over_ the coffee table to get to the kitchen. He stopped on the way, and stooped to pick up the discarded ball of paper that Kestrel had thrown at him earlier, and lobbed it back at her. It fell short by several feet, and she stuck her tongue out at him.

"Type and send it. Quickly." Sherlock said to John, walking into the kitchen and picking up a flamingo-pink suitcase. It was horrific. He brought it back through into the living room and plopped it down onto a chair, before turning back to John.

"Have you sent it?" Sherlock pestered, John was still typing.

"What's the address?" He asked, pausing momentarily.

"Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Hurry up!" Sherlock told him. John finished typing and sent the massage, before looking up just in time to see Sherlock open up the case. He did a double take and staggered backwards slightly once he realized what he was looking at.

"That's... that's the pink lady's case. That's Jennifer Wilson's case." John sputtered, pointing to the case.

"Yes, obviously." Sherlock said, ignoring Kestrel in the background. _('No, really? I thought it was somebody else's.)_ John could only stare, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Oh, perhaps I should mention: I didn't kill her." Sherlock grumbled sarcastically.

"I never said you did. John told him.

"Why not? Given the text I just had you send and the fact I that have her case, it's a perfectly logical assumption." Sherlock pointed out.

"Do people usually assume you're the murderer?" John asked warily.

"Now and then, yes." Sherlock said, smirking.

"Depends who you ask." Kestrel said at the same time, and Sherlock glared at her.

"I thought we didn't count Anderson as a person." He reminded her and she rolled her eyes. Sherlock ignored her, and moved positions so that he sat, teetering on the edge of the arm of the sofa, his lower-back pressed against the end of the sofa's back, and rested his chin on his hands.

"Okay..." John said, before limping across the room and dropping down into the other armchair.

"How did you get this?" He asked them wearily.

"By looking." Sherlock told him in a dry tone.

"Where?" John said. Sherlock sighed, and then launched into his rapid, quick-fire manner of speaking.

"The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention – particularly a man, which is statistically more likely – so obviously he'd feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it." Sherlock reasoned, and John nodded, trying to keep up.

"Wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realise his mistake. We checked every back street wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens, and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed." Kestrel told him.

"Took me less than an hour to find the right skip." Sherlock said smugly. Kestrel could only glower at him.

"Yeah. _After_ we went through three others." She informed John.

"Pink. You got all that because you realised the case would be pink?" John asked him, officially impressed.

"Well, it had to be pink, obviously." Sherlock said as if there could be no alternative.

"Why didn't I think of that?" John muttered to himself.

"Because you're an idiot." Sherlock said, not thinking. John stared at Sherlock, having to restrain a snort when Kestrel through the nearest object, namely her shoe, at him.

"No, no, no, don't look like that. Practically everyone is." Sherlock said, refolding his hands. Somebody really needed to teach him how to apologize properly.

"Now, look. Do you see what's missing?" Sherlock asked him, as Kestrel had gone back to her dozing.

"From the case? How could I?" John drawled sarcastically.

"Her phone. Where's her mobile phone? There was no phone on the body, there's no phone in the case. We know she had one – that's her number there; you just texted it." Sherlock told him.

"Maybe she left it at home." John suggested. Sherlock put his hands on the side of the small sofa and pushed himself up so that he could sit up straight.

"She has a string of lovers and she's careful about it. She never leaves her phone at home." Sherlock concluded, putting the piece of paper back where it belonged, and turning to John.

"Er..." John looked down at the phone that lay on the arm of his chair.

"Why did I just send that text?" He asked, not sure if he wanted to know the answer.

"Well, the question is: where is her phone now?" Sherlock asked, raising his eyebrows.

"She could have lost it." John suggested weakly.

"Yes, or...?" Sherlock said, waiting for John to catch on.

"The murderer... You think the murderer has the phone?" John realized.

"Maybe she left it when she left her case. Maybe he took it from her for some reason. Either way, the balance of probability is the murderer has her phone." Sherlock summarized quickly.

"Sorry, what are we doing? Did I just text a murderer?! What good will that do?" John asked, horrified as his brain kicked in. As if on cue, John's phone began to ring. The caller id read: 'Withheld number.' John looked at Sherlock, and didn't answer the phone.

"A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her. If somebody had just found that phone they'd ignore a text like that, but the murderer..." Sherlock said, pausing dramatically. The phone stopped ringing.

"...would panic." He finished, flipping the lid of the suitcase close as he stood up, before crossing the room to collect his blazer and pull it on, walking to the door as he did so. John stared down at his phone, feeling a tad violated.

"Have you talked to the police?" John asked, finally looking up. Kestrel laughed, waiting for the inevitable.

"Four people are dead. There isn't time to talk to the police." Sherlock scolded him.

"So why are you talking to me?" John remarked wryly. Sherlock reached behind the door to grab his greatcoat, looking across at the mantle as he did so. Something was missing.

"Mrs. Hudson took my skull." Sherlock admitted reluctantly, and there was the echo of a pout.

"So I'm basically filling in for your skull?" John asked him.

"It's your turn, I do it most days." Kestrel told him, snuggling further down into the couch.

"Relax, you're doing fine." Sherlock told him as he put his coat on, and shot him a wide grin. John didn't budge.

"Well?" Sherlock said impatiently.

"Well what?" John asked, confused.

"Well, you could just sit there and watch telly." Sherlock said drolly.

"What, you want me to come with you two?" John asked him, and Kestrel rolled her eyes.

"I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention, so..." Sherlock trailed off, grinning at them

"I'm not coming." Kestrel sighed stubbornly, and Sherlock turned to give her a disparaging look.

"What?" He asked, and Kestrel sighed again.

"We've just spent the last hour digging through dumpsters. You may not feel the need for a shower, but I do. Deal with it." She told him. John smiled as Sherlock sputtered for several moments before going silent under Kestrel's glare. He stopped smiling however when Sherlock turned to him instead.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked him, noting the panicked look on his face.

"Yeah, Sergeant Donovan." John told him wanly.

"What about her?" Sherlock asked, clearly annoyed at the mention of Donovan.

"She said... You get off on this. You enjoy it." John said, hesitantly.

"And I said 'dangerous', and here you are." Sherlock reminded him, turning and walking out of the door. John sat there for a few moments before his curiosity got the better of him.

"Damn it!" He cursed and climbed to his feet, before hobbling after didn't take him long to catch up, as Sherlock had waited at the bottom of the stairs, a smug, knowing look on his face.

"Where are we going?" John asked a few moments later.

"Northumberland Street's a five-minute walk from here." Sherlock told him, as they walked down the road.

"You think he's stupid enough to go there?" John looked alarmed. A psychopathic idiot sounded rather worrying.

"No – I think he's brilliant enough. I love the brilliant ones. They're always so desperate to get caught." Sherlock said, grinning widely.

"Why?" John asked, honestly confused.

"Appreciation! Applause! At long last the spotlight. That's the frailty of genius, John: it needs an audience." Sherlock told him gleefully.

"Yeah." John muttered, looking pointedly at Sherlock. A bemused expression spread across his face as Sherlock managed to miss his implication, choosing instead to spin around wildly.

"This is his hunting ground, right here in the heart of the city. Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything. Because all of his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, but nobody saw them go." Sherlock muttered, barely loud enough for John to hear, and held his hands up to his head.

"Think! Who do we trust, even though we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?" Sherlock said, trying so hard to focus on the problem that he missed the blaring obvious, even when it was right in front of him.

"Dunno. Who?'" John said.

"Haven't the faintest. Hungry?" Sherlock admitted, shrugging and leading John toward a small restaurant. They walked through the door, and were greeted by a waiter who clearly knew who Sherlock was. The waiter lead them to a reserved table near the front window.

"Thank you, Billy." Sherlock said to the waiter. Sherlock took of his coat, and sat down on the bench seat near the end of the table, turning so he could see out of the window. John sat down with his back to the window, pulling off his jacket as he did so.

"Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Keep your eyes on it." Sherlock told him, nodding at a building over the road.

"He isn't just gonna ring the doorbell, though, is he? He'd need to be mad." John asked, realizing what they were there for.

"He has killed four people." Sherlock reminded him

"...Okay." John could see his point. As he pondered the thought, the owner of the restaurant walked over to their table, clearly pleased to see Sherlock.

"Sherlock." Angelo, the owner, greeted him. They shook hands.

"Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free." Angelo told him, laying a pair of menus down on the table.

"On the house, for you and for your date." Angelo added, and John looked panicked.

"Do you want to eat?" Sherlock asked him, ignoring the annoyed look on John's face.

"I'm not his date." John protested.

"This man got me off a murder charge." Angelo told him, nodding to Sherlock.

"This is Angelo." Sherlock said, by way of an introduction. Angelo held out his hand and John shook it.

"Three years ago I successfully proved to Lestrade at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder that Angelo was in a completely different part of town, house-breaking." Sherlock explained.

"He cleared my name." Angelo said, happily.

"I cleared it a bit. Anything happening opposite?" Sherlock said, waving a dismissive hand.

"Nothing." Angelo told him, before looking at John once more.

"But for this man, I'd have gone to prison." Angelo told him.

"You did go to prison." Sherlock said bluntly. Angelo ignored him.

"I'll get a candle for the table. It's more romantic." Angelo told John before walking off.

"I'm not his date!" John protested indignantly. Sherlock put his menu down on the table, and turned to John.

"You may as well eat. We might have a long wait. He told John. Angelo walked back over to them, carrying a small glass container with a tea light inside. He put it down before shooting john a thumbs up pose, and scurrying off again. John glared at the innocent looking tea light.

"Thanks." He said tetchily. Time passed, and John eventually ended up with a plate of food, which he heartily tucked into. Sherlock sat unmoving, gaze fixed on the building across the street.

"People don't have arch-enemies." John told Sherlock. It took a little while, but Sherlock finally looked around, the words sinking into his brain.

"I'm sorry?" He asked.

"In real life. There are no arch-enemies in real life. Doesn't happen." John repeated.

"Doesn't it? Sounds a bit dull." Sherlock said, looking out of the window once more.

"So who did I meet?" John asked, determined to figure out the identity of the stranger.

"What do real people have, then, in their 'real lives'?" Sherlock asked, artfully diverting the conversation.

"Friends; people they know; people they like; people they don't like... Girlfriends, boyfriends..." John told him, trailing off as he caught Sherlock's bored look.

"Yes, well, as I was saying – dull." Sherlock said, unbothered.

"You don't have a girlfriend, then?" John asked, trying to be polite.

"Girlfriend? No, not really my area." Sherlock told him, still staring out of the window.

"Mm." John hummed, and a moment passed before he realized the implications of the statement.

"Oh, right. D'you have a boyfriend?" John asked, brain making new connections. Sherlock looked at him sharply and John shrank back.

"Which is fine, by the way." He added, as timid as an ex-soldier could be.

"I know its fine." Sherlock said in a clipped tone. John smiled at him, trying to convey that he wasn't being negative.

"So you've got a boyfriend then?" John asked.

"No." Sherlock told him, not looking back around at him.

"Right. Okay. You're unattached. Like me." John said disjointedly, his smile becoming awkward. He looked down at his plate, trying to come up with a new direction of conversation.

"Fine. Good." He said, and returned to eating when words failed him. Sherlock watched him for a moment, suspicious, before going back to his idea of a stake-out. He seemed to replaying John's words inside his head, because a startled expression came over him. Not unlike a deer-in-the-headlights look, and he turned back to John, looking uneasy.

"John, um... I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for any – " Sherlock began awkwardly, and John hastily cut him off.

"No. No, I'm not asking. No." He said firmly, looking Sherlock in the eye. That was _not_ what he had meant.

"I'm just saying, it's all fine." John told him. Sherlock watched him a moment longer before nodding.

"Good. Thank you." Sherlock said, turning back to watch the street once more. John smiled, amused. A few seconds later, Sherlock stilled like a dog that had scented a rabbit. He nodded at something outside.

"Look across the street. Taxi." He said. John twisted, trying to see what he was on about. Sure enough, on the other side of the street was a parked Taxi.

"Stopped. Nobody getting in, and nobody getting out." Sherlock told him. They could just barely make out the silhouette of the passenger, who was looking out of the windows as if trying to find somebody.

"Why a taxi? Oh, that's clever. Is it clever? Why is it clever?" Sherlock muttered to himself.

"That's him?" John asked, turning around a bit further to get a better look.

"Don't stare." Sherlock commanded.

" You're staring." John told him, annoyed.

"We can't both stare." Sherlock said, as if it had been obvious. He climbed to his feet, snagging his coat and scarf as he headed for the door. John grabbed his jacket and followed, forgetting his cane in his excitement. The adrenaline was already coursing through his veins.

Outside the building, both pulled on their extra layers, watching the taxi intently. The passenger was still looking around, but after a few moments longer, the taxi began to pull away fro the kerb. Not looking at his surroundings, Sherlock started after it, almost getting run over by an oncoming car. Sherlock ignored the danger, and simply used the momentum to roll over the bonnet of the car and land on his feet on the other side, unharmed, before carrying on. The angry driver, sounded his horn, and John vaulted over the bonnet after Sherlock, apologizing profusely to the driver as he did so.

"Sorry." John apologized, chasing off after Sherlock who had stopped a few yards down the road. The taxi was faster than him. John skidded to a stop next to him.

"I've got the cab number." John said, not realizing that Sherlock had stopped for a different reason.

"Good for you." Sherlock said, calling up a mental map of the local area and calculating the route that taxi was taking.

"Right turn, one way, roadwork's, traffic lights, bus lane, pedestrian crossing, left turn only, traffic lights." Sherlock rattled off, as if he were reading a list of numbers from a lottery ticket. He lifted his head and caught sight of a man unlocking a door of a nearby building. Quick as a flash, Sherlock raced over to the door, shoved the man out of the way, and zipped through the door.

"Oi!" The man shouted.

"Sorry." John apologized once more, dashing past the affronted man, after Sherlock. They ran up a spiraling fire escape that led to the rooftops, John lagging behind as Sherlock's superior height gave him the advantage.

"Come on, John." Sherlock shouted, not pausing for breath. He reached the roof, and ran to the edge where another, shorter, fire escape lead down to another roof below. He easily made it down them, and vaulted over a railing near the bottom. John followed him, scrambling to keep up. Sherlock lead the way across the roof, not missing a beat as he leapt over a gap between rooftops. John followed, but skidded to a stop at the edge of the roof, realizing the gap might be too wide for him to manage.

"Come on, John. We're losing him!"Sherlock shouted, and John eyed the gap in front of him warily. Never one to give up quickly, John backed up, braced himself and then bodily flung himself across the gap. He raced to catch up with Sherlock, who was already dropping down onto a walkway beside the building. They went down yet another fire escape and were forced to drop onto the ground into an alleyway, before continuing the chase.

Sherlock lead John down the alleyway, coming closer and closer to the cab with every second. With only moments to spare, the cab flew past the end of the alleyway, the pair only yards from catching it.

"Ah, no!" Sherlock cursed, and then continued out of the alley before turning right, in the direction that the cab had just come from.

"This way." He shouted, expecting John to follow him. John.,, however, followed the cab by turning left. Sherlock glanced back over his shoulder.

"No, this way!" He shouted, and John turned back.

"Sorry." John yelled. Sherlock automatically called up his mind-map once more, selecting a new point of intersection. They ran, well Sherlock ran and John followed him, down the street, taking a shorter route than the cab, which was being diverted by numerous road signs. Down alleyways, and past side streets, the two men doggedly pursued their target, finally catching the cab at Wardour street, bang on where Sherlock had predicted.

Ever the dramatist, Sherlock hurled himself into the path of the oncoming cab, which was forced to stop hurriedly, and Sherlock hit the bonnet with a crash. He winced, and searched his pockets for one o the many police badges he had, ahem, liberated from Lestrade over the years, and held it up. John scrambled out of the alley to join him.

"Police! Open her up!" He shouted, panting heavily as he moved around to the side and pulled open the back door. The passenger inside looked nervous, confused as to why the two men were interested in him.

"No." Sherlock said, exasperated, and then looked the man up and down once more.

"Teeth, tan: what – Californian?" Sherlock said, before glancing down at the floor of the cab.

"L.A, Santa Monica. Just arrived." Sherlock said, straightening up and grimacing.

"How can you possibly know that?" John asked him, astounded.

"The luggage." Sherlock told him, indicating the bags on the floor, clearly labelled LAZ to LHR.

"It's probably your first trip to London, right, going by your final destination and the route the cabbie was taking you?" Sherlock said to the passenger, who looked rather lost.

"Sorry – are you guys the police?" He asked.

"Yeah." Sherlock said, flashing Lestrade's badge once again.

"Everything all right?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah." The passenger said, smiling. Sherlock paused, unsure of what to do next, before smiling falsely.

"Welcome to London." Sherlock said, having nothing else prepared, before walking away quickly, eager to forget his mistake. John stood there for a moment, before moving closer to the open door.

"Er, any problems, just let us know." He told the passenger, who nodded, and John shut the door. The passenger turned to the cab driver, and John walked off to where Sherlock had stopped a few yards away.

"Basically just a cab that happened to slow down." John asked, steadying his breathing.

"Basically." Sherlock admitted.

"Not the murderer." John said, suppressing a grin.

"Not the murderer, no." Sherlock huffed.

"Wrong country, good alibi." John said offhandedly.

"As they go." Sherlock said, switching the badge to his other hand. John focused on it, curious.

"Hey, where-where did you get this? Here." He reached for the badge and Sherlock handed it over.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade?" John said in disbelief, looking at the name on the badge,

"Yeah. I pickpocket him when he's annoying. You can keep that one; I've got plenty at the flat." Sherlock told him. John nodded and looked down at the card again, before laughing.

"What?" Sherlock wanted to know.

"Nothing, just: 'Welcome to London.'?" John asked, and Sherlock started to laugh. They looked back down the road to where a police officer was inquiring about the cab's sudden stop. The passenger had gotten out and was talking with the yellow-coated bobby, before pointing down the road at them.

"Got your breath back?" Sherlock said, turning to John.

"Ready when you are." John told him, and together the sprinted off down the road back to Barker Street. They clattered through the front door, panting hard. John hung his jacket up on one of the wall hooks, while Sherlock draped his over the bannisters.

"Okay, that was ridiculous." John said, leaning back against the wall, breathing heavily.

"That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done." He repeated.

"And you invaded Afghanistan." Sherlock added. John let out a giggle, and then they looked at each other before bursting out into laughter.

"That wasn't just me." John told him once they had calmed down. Sherlock chuckled again.

"Why aren't we back at the restaurant?" John asked him, worried.

"Oh, they can keep an eye out. It was a long shot anyway." Sherlock told him, waving a hand dismissively.

"So what were we doing there?" John asked him, rather confused.

"Oh, just passing the time." Sherlock said in a blasé tone, before clearing his throat.

"And proving a point." He added, looking over at John.

"What point?" John looked a little lost.

"You." Sherlock told him, nodding at John, before turning to shout at the door to Mrs. Hudson's flat.

"Mrs Hudson! Doctor Watson will take the room upstairs."

"Says who?" John wanted to know.

"Says the man at the door." Sherlock smiled at him, and nodded at the front door. John turned to look at the door just in time to hear somebody knock three times. He turned back to Sherlock, surprised, but the man in question simply continued to smile at him. John stared at the door, and then slowly began to walk toward it. He opened it, and found Angelo standing outside.

"Sherlock texted me." Angelo said, by way of an explanation.

"He said you forgot this." Angelo told him, holding out the metal cane that John had forgotten at the restaurant in his hurry. There was a moment of silence and then:

"Ah." He muttered, taking it back, and then turning to look down the hall at Sherlock who looked very smug.

"Er, thank you. Thank you." John said, and closed the door once Angelo had left. Mrs. Hudson came out of her flat on the ground floor, and hurried over to them, a worried look on her face.

"Sherlock, what have you done?" She asked, voice shaky. In that instant both men stopped smiling, and tensed up, preparing for trouble.

"Mrs Hudson?" Sherlock asked, his voice eerily calm.

"Upstairs." She told them. Immediately, Sherlock turned around and bolted up the stairs, John right behind him. Sherlock opened the door to the living room and went through it to find Lestrade sitting in one of the arm chairs, looking rather smug. A team of police investigators were going through his belongings.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked, outraged, storming over to Lestrade.

"Well, I knew you'd find the case. I'm not stupid." Lestrade told him smugly.

"You can't just break into my flat." Sherlock said angrily.

"And you can't withhold evidence. And I didn't break into your flat." Lestrade snapped back.

"Well, what do you call this then?" Sherlock said, gesturing to the intruders in his home.

"It's a drugs bust." Lestrade said, looking around the room as if it were obvious.

"Seriously?! This guy, a junkie?! Have you met him?!" John exclaimed, disbelieving. Sherlock turned around and moved closer to him, biting his lip nervously.

"John..." He said warningly.

"I'm pretty sure you could search this flat all day, you wouldn't find anything you could call recreational." John said to Lestrade, ready to defend his new friend. He'd have been a Hufflepuff easily.

"John, you probably want to shut up now." Kestrel hissed, sharing a look with Sherlock from where she sat on the sofa, looking rather peeved. Her hair was still tied up from her shower, and her clothes were damp.

"Yeah, but come on..." John protested, not yet understanding. He locked gazes with Sherlock who looked nervous. Ah.

"No." John said, not quite believing it, his mind having jumped to a series of conclusions

"What?" Sherlock asked, not yet realizing that John was imagining him as a druggie.

"You?" John asked, still in shock. Then the penny dropped.

"Shut up!" Sherlock hissed angrily, turning back to Lestrade. John looked to Kestrel, who patted the spot next to where she sat on the sofa. He sat down next to her to enjoy the show. Shame they didn't have any popcorn.

"I'm not your sniffer dog." Sherlock growled at Lestrade.

"No, Anderson's my sniffer dog." Lestrade said, nodding to the kitchen.

"What, An..." Sherlock asked, turning around to fins more police officers rooting through his things in the kitchen.

"Anderson, what are you doing here on a drugs bust?" Sherlock demanded angrily.

"Oh, I volunteered." Anderson told him in a venomous tone, and it might have been impressive, had it not ended with Anderson having to hurriedly dodge the paperweight that Kestrel threw at his head. It clattered to the ground, and Sherlock turned away.

"They all did. They're not strictly speaking on the drugs squad, but they're very keen." Lestrade admitted as Donovan walked through, carrying a glass jar of preserved eyeballs.

"Are these human eyes?" She asked, more than a little creeped out.

"Put those back!" Sherlock shouted at her.

"They were in the microwave!" Donovan told Lestrade, looking disgusted.

"It's an experiment." Kestrel told her, waving a hand aimlessly.

"Keep looking, guys." Lestrade told the team, standing up and turning to Sherlock

"Or you could help us properly and I'll stand them down." Lestrade told him. Her dodged the silly sting that Kestrel had shot at him.

"This is childish." Sherlock protested angrily, ignoring his friends' antics.

"Well, I'm dealing with a child. Sherlock, this is our case. I'm letting you in, but you do not go off on your own. Clear?" Lestrade said, clearly annoyed. This time, the silly sting hit him dead in the back of the head, and John had to suppress a snort.

"Oh, what, so-so-so you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?" Sherlock asked, stopping his pacing to glare at Lestrade, a hard thing to do considering that the man in question had tendrils of slimy green ick clinging to his hair.

"It stops being pretend if they find anything." Lestrade reminded him sternly, shaking off the string.

"I am clean!" Sherlock protested loudly.

"Is your flat? All of it?" Lestrade asked, a threatening note tingeing his voice.

"I don't even smoke." Sherlock exclaimed, pulling up his left sleeve to show Lestrade the nicotine patches.

"Neither do I." Lestrade told him, pulling up his right sleeve to show him the same thing. They shared a look, and then Sherlock rolled his eyes before they both pulled their sleeves back down.

"So let's work together. We've found Rachel." Lestrade said.

"Who is she?" Kestrel asked, curious.

"Jennifer Wilson's only daughter." Lestrade told them.

"Her daughter? Why would she write her daughter's name? Why?" Sherlock mumbled, frowning as he tried to piece it all together.

"Never mind that. We found the case." Anderson said, pointing to the pink suitcase on the chair.

"According to someone, the murderer has the case, and we found it in the hands of our favourite psychopath." He added gleefully. The shoe that Kestrel threw, hit him solidly in the side of the head, knocking him to the ground. Lestrade shot her a look and she shrugged a shoulder.

"I'm not a psychopath, Anderson. I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research." Sherlock snapped, giving the man a withering look before turning back to Lestrade.

"You need to bring Rachel in. You need to question her. I need to question her." Sherlock said, trying to focus.

"She's dead." Lestrade told him bluntly.

"Excellent!" Sherlock exclaimed, unnerving John.

"How, when and why? Is there a connection? There has to be." Sherlock said facing Lestrade.

"Well, I doubt it, since she's been dead for fourteen years. Technically she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter, fourteen years ago." Lestrade informed him. John grimaced and looked away, but Sherlock didn't react.

"No, that's... that's not right. How... Why would she do that? Why?" Sherlock hissed, trying to make the connection.

"Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments? Yup – sociopath; I'm seeing it now." Anderson said snarkily.

"She didn't think about her daughter. She scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails. She was dying. It took effort. It would have hurt." Sherlock told them, an exasperated expression clear on his face, and began pacing again.

"You said that the victims all took the poison themselves, that he makes them take it. Well, maybe he... I don't know, talks to them? Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow." John suggested. Sherlock stopped pacing and turned to face him.

"Yeah, but that was ages ago. Why would she still be upset?" Sherlock said. Everybody in the room suddenly stilled, making Sherlock pause. He glanced around the room, before looking to John.

"Not good?" He asked. Seconds later, he was showered in silly string. He turned to glare at Kestrel who gave him a warning look.

"Bit not good, yeah." John told him, watching the other's reactions.

"Yeah, but if you were dying... if you'd been murdered: in your very last few seconds what would you say?" Sherlock asked John, thinking it all through.

"'Please, God, let me live.'" John said in a deadpan.

"Oh, use your imagination!" Sherlock begged, exasperated.

"I don't have to." John told him grimly, causing Sherlock to falter, allowing Kestrel to douse him again. Sherlock shifted his feet uncomfortably, bowing his head in apology before carrying on.

"Yeah, but if you were clever, really clever... Jennifer Wilson running all those lovers: she was clever." Sherlock insisted, beginning to pace once more. Something was missing. He shook his head to get rid of the sticky string that was caught in his hair.

"She's trying to tell us something." He said, puzzled.

"Isn't the doorbell working? Your taxi's here, Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson said, walking through the living room door.

"I didn't order a taxi. Go away." Sherlock told her dismissively and kept on pacing.

"Oh, dear. They're making such a mess. What are they looking for?" Mrs. Hudson asked, looking around the room in distress.

"It's a drugs bust, Mrs. Hudson." John told her apologetically.

"But they're just for my hip. They're herbal soothers." Mrs. Hudson said, thinking of her medication. Suddenly, Sherlock stopped walking and stood impossibly still.

"Shut up, everybody, shut up! Don't move, don't speak, don't breathe. I'm trying to think. Anderson, face the other way. You're putting me off." He shouted, and everybody turned to look at him.

"What? My face is?!" Anderson asked, affronted.

"Everybody quiet and still. Anderson, turn your back." Lestrade ordered, and they complied.

"Oh, for God's sake!" Anderson protested.

"Your back, now, please!" Lestrade shouted, and Anderson reluctantly did as he was told.

"Come on, think. Quick!" Sherlock muttered to himself.

"What about your taxi?" Mrs. Hudson protested, wringing her hands.

"MRS HUDSON!" Sherlock turned and shouted fiercely. Poor Mrs. Hudson turned and hurried down the stairs, scared. The whole room stared at Sherlock, and even Kestrel was too shocked to throw something at him. Sherlock _never_ shouted at Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock ignored them, still pacing, before stopping when he realized something vitally important.

"Oh." He said as the proverbial penny dropped with a loud clatter. He smiled, delighted.

"Ah! She was clever, clever, yes!" Sherlock shouted, walking back across the room to them.

"She's cleverer than you lot and she's dead. Do you see, do you get it? She didn't lose her phone, she never lost it. She planted it on him." He told them, beginning to pace again.

"When she got out of the car, she knew that she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer." Sherlock said.

"But how?" Lestrade wanted to know, and Sherlock stopped dead.

"Wha...? What do you mean, how?" He asked, shocked. Lestrade shrugged and Sherlock could only gape at him.

"Rachel!" Sherlock said, looking around in triumph, but only got blank looks in return.

"Don't you see? Rachel!" Sherlock said once more. There was still no response, and Sherlock sighed in disappointment.

"Oh, look at you lot. You're all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing." Sherlock told them, sounding rather depressed.

"Rachel is not a name." He told them sternly.

"Then what is it?" John asked him, just as serious.

"John, on the luggage, there's a label. E-mail address." Sherlock said, and John turned to the suitcase, fishing out the tiny piece of paper.

"Er… .uk" He read the label out loud, confused. Behind him Sherlock had opened a notebook laptop and pulled up the Mephone website.

"Oh, I've been too slow. She didn't have a laptop, which means she did her business on her phone, so it's a smartphone, it's e-mail enabled." Sherlock fussed, opening the login page.

"So there was a website for her account. The username is her e-mail address..." He said, punching in the email address, and the moving to click on the password box.

"...and all together now, the password is?" He asked out loud, typing it in, having already figured it out.

"Rachel." John realized, moving to stand beside his new friend.

"So we can read her e-mails. So what?" Anderson said. Kestrel took the opportunity to fling a rubber band at him, and it bounced off his forehead. She grinned in triumph. Maybe now, the guy might think before barging into a bathroom without checking first.

"Anderson, don't talk out loud. You lower the I.Q. of the whole street. We can do much more than just read her e-mails. It's a smartphone, it's got GPS, which means if you lose it you can locate it online. She's leading us directly to the man who killed her." Sherlock told him, trying not to grin at the sight of the red mark left by the rubber band.

"Unless he got rid of it." Lestrade pointed out.

"We know he didn't."John told him, remembering earlier, while Sherlock waited impatiently for the screen to load.

"Come on, come on. Quickly!" Sherlock cursed the computer.

"Sherlock, dear. This taxi driver..." Mrs. Hudson said, having come back up the stairs. Sherlock climbed to his feet.

"Mrs Hudson, isn't it time for your evening soother?" He suggested, walking across the room. John sat down in the chair to watch the computer. The website declared that it would take three minutes to locate the phone.

"We need to get vehicles, get a helicopter." Sherlock declared, turning to Lestrade.

"We're gonna have to move fast. This phone battery won't last forever." Sherlock told them.

"We'll just have a map reference, not a name." Lestrade protested.

"It's a start!" Sherlock told him snappily.

"Sherlock..." John said, as a map appeared on the screen, and began to zoom in.

"It narrows it down from just anyone in London. It's the first proper lead that we've had." Sherlock pointed out.

"Sherlock..." John said again, eyes on the screen.

"What is it? Quickly, where?" Sherlock demanded, hurrying over to where John sat. The address on the screen was one they were both familiar with.

"It's here. It's in 221 Baker Street." John told him, surprised.

"How can it be here? How?" Sherlock asked, wheeling around, trying to figure out the next piece of the puzzle.

"Well, maybe it was in the case when you brought it back and it fell out somewhere." Lestrade suggested.

"What, and I didn't notice it? _Me?_ I didn't notice?" Sherlock said in a scathing tone.

"Anyway, we texted him and he called back." John told Lestrade. Lestrade ignored him, and turned to his team.

"Guys, we're also looking for a mobile somewhere here, belonged to the victim..." Lestrade told them, and Anderson smirked. Sherlock tuned him out, trying to focus on where the clues had lead them. He focused on the questions he had asked himself earlier that day.

 _"Who do we trust, even if we don't know them?"_ Behind Mrs. Hudson, the taxi driver appeared, having walked up the stairs. The badge around his next proclaimed his licensed number to be 71126.

_"Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?"_

Sherlock stood in the middle of the flat, eyes closed as he began to put the pieces together. Suddenly the cab driver's presence became clear. Out on the landing, the cab driver pulled a pink smartphone from his pocket and sent a text. Seconds later, Sherlock's own phone trilled an alert. He pulled his phone out, and looked at the text message. It was three words, sent from Jennifer Wilson's number.

**Come With Me.**

Sherlock turned to look at the doorway, and the cab driver turned to walk down the stairs, not even trying to hurry.

"Sherlock, you okay?" Kestrel asked, standing up from her seat on the couch.

"What? Yeah, yeah, I-I'm fine." Sherlock said dismissively. Kestrel walked over to John, and looked over his shoulder at the laptop screen. IT really did say 221 Baker Street. How strange.

"So, how can the phone be here?" Kestrel muttered, confused.

"Dunno." Sherlock said.

"I'll try it again." John told them, pulling out his phone and standing up.

"Good idea." Sherlock said, walking toward the door.

"Where are you going?" Kestrel asked him.

"Fresh air. Just popping outside for a moment. Won't be long." Sherlock said in a reassuring tone. The words reassuring and Sherlock did not belong together in a sentence. John frowned and Kestrel gave him an odd look, but Sherlock ignored them both and walked out of the room.

"You sure you're all right?" John asked him, as he paused to put on his coat.

"I'm fine." Sherlock told them, before padding off down the staircase. As the sound of the front door shutting reached them, Kestrel and John shared a look. Something was very, very wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **AN: Any queries involving this fic should be directed to: _aspenwilder at gmail dot com_**
> 
>  
> 
> **Scripts I used can be found here:**  
>  _  
>  **arianedevere dot livejournal dot com/36505 dot html**  
> _
> 
>  
> 
> **1) Tripping Over Fools is oficially on Hiatus for the next two weeks. I need as break, and I reckon Sherlock's**  
>  **Foible is just the thing.**
> 
>  
> 
> **2) What do y'all think of Kestrel's habit of chucking things at people. If you remember, she did mention that water spritz botles didn't work on Sherlock, so now she's trying silly string. If that doesn't curb his behavior, she'll move on to squirty cream or cheese. What can I say - He can be an insensitive berk, although, honestly - We all know that we wouldn't have him any other way.**
> 
>  
> 
> **3) Martin Freeman is adorable. Seriously, whether he's Arthur Dent, John Watson, or Bilbo Baggins, I just want to hug him. In other news - did anybody know that Benedict Cumberbatch plays the Necromancer in the Hobbit, and will also be voicing Smaug the Dragon? If anybody wants to do me a favor and sketch out a little comic of John and Sherlock dressed up as Bilbo and Smaug for Halloween (even though it's February) I'll dedicate a chapter to you, and offer a cameo slot. Also - I'll love you forever!**


	4. Suicide at (Fake) Gunpoint?

**1.4: Suicide at (Fake) Gunpoint?**

* * *

  
_"_ _Oh, what now? I'm in shock! Look, I've got a blanket._ _"_  


_\- Sherlock Holmes_

* * *

On the ground floor of 221 Baker street, Sherlock finished doing up the buttons of his overcoat and tucked his scarf in before opening the front door. A black taxi cab was parked on the kerb, its driver waiting on the pavement.

"Taxi for Sherlock 'olmes." The cabbie said, leaning back against the cab, looking rather relaxed. Sherlock stepped forward, letting the door behind him swing shut.

"I didn't order a taxi." He told the cabbie, testing the waters.

"Doesn't mean you don't need one." The cab driver, Jeff Hope, told him.

"You're the cabbie. The one who stopped outside Northumberland Street." Sherlock realized, thinking back and remembering that there had been  _two_  people in that cab, the passenger  _and_  the driver.

"It was you, not your passenger." He said, his mind slotting together the penultimate pieces of the puzzle. He now knew who, but not  _why._

"See? No-one ever thinks about the cabbie. It's like you're invisible. Just the back of an 'ead. Proper advantage for a serial killer." Jeff told him smugly.

"Is this a confession?" Sherlock asked, glancing up at the windows of his flat, where Kestrel sat watching them.

"Oh, yeah. An' I'll tell you what else: if you call the coppers now, I won't run. I'll sit quiet and they can take me down, I promise." Jeff said, not batting an eyelid.

"Why?" Sherlock said, eyes narrowing as he titled his head.

"'Cause you're not gonna do that."Jeff told him confidently.

"Am I not?" Sherlock asked, raising his eyebrow in amusement.

"I didn't kill those four people, Mr. 'olmes. I spoke to 'em ... and they killed themselves. An' if you get the coppers now, I promise you one thing." Jeff said, leaning forward.

"I will never tell you what I said." Jeff promised. Sherlock could only stare at him, and after a moment Jeff straightened, before walking around the cab to the driver's door.

"No-one else will die, though, and I believe they call that a result." Sherlock said warily, eyeing Jeff as if debating the risk. Jeff turned to look at him

"An' you won't ever understand how those people died. What kind of result do you care about?" He said to Sherlock, before looking away again and climbing into the cab. He pulled the seatbelt across his body and started the engine. Sherlock moved closer to the cab, and bent to peer through one of the windows.

"If I wanted to understand, what would I do?" Sherlock asked, Jeff turned his head to look at the blue eyed pest.

"Let me take you for a ride." Jeff told him.

"So you can kill me too?" Sherlock said dryly. It wasn't a question per say.

"I don't wanna kill you, Mr. 'olmes. I'm gonna talk to yer... and then you're gonna kill yourself." Jeff told him, confident in his prediction. He turned back to face the road in front of him. Sherlock straightened up, tilting his head as he considered the situation. Finally, curiosity won out, and the detective climbed into the back of the cab. Jeff smiled in satisfaction.

From where he stood by the front window, John watched the cab pull away, his phone pressed to his ear.

"He just got in a cab." John said, turning to Lestrade. Lestrade ignored him, focusing on his supposed drug-bust.

"It's Sherlock. He just drove off in a cab." John repeated. Donovan scowled.

"I told you, he does that." She said tutting in irritation as she looked at Lestrade.

"He bloody left again." She told Lestrade and then walked into the kitchen.

"We're wasting our time!" She shouted to the team. John ignored her, and waved to get Lestrade's attention.

"I'm calling the phone. It's ringing out." John told Lestrade, worried. If the phone was here – why wasn't it ringing? Lestrade watched John pace around the room, his phone pressed to his ear.

"If it's ringing, it's not here." Lestrade said, stating the blindingly obvious fact. Kestrel glowered at him, and John put the phone down.

"I'll try the search again." He told her, reaching for the computer as Donovan reentered the room.

"Does it matter? Does any of it? You know, he's just a lunatic, and he'll always let you down, and you're wasting your time. All our time." Donovan fussed at Lestrade who locked eyes with her. He held her gaze for a long moment before sighing as she stared him down.

"Okay, everybody. Done 'ere." He shouted to his team. The police put everything back in its place and collected their things before leaving. Lestrade picked up his coat, before turning to John who was still sat in the desk chair.

"Why did he do that? Why did he have to leave?" Lestrade fussed, John could only shrug.

"You know him better than I do." He told Lestrade.

"I've known him for five years and no, I don't." Lestrade said, causing him to frown.

"So why do you put up with him?" John asked. Lestrade let out a huff.

"Because I'm desperate, that's why." He admitted, putting his hands in his pockets before walking toward the door. He stopped in the doorway, and turned back.

"And because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think one day, if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a good one." Lestrade told him.

"He already is." Kestrel said, from where she stood by the window, staring out at the night sky. Lestrade's eyes flickered over to her and he sighed, before leaving the flat.

* * *

"How did you find me?" Sherlock asked, looking out of the cab's window.

"Oh, I recognized yer, soon as I saw you chasing my cab. Sherlock 'olmes! I was warned about you. I've been on your website, too. Brilliant stuff! Loved it!" Jeff told him cheerfully, For a man confessing to be a murderer, he seemed awfully chipper.

"Who warned you about me?" Sherlock said, curious.

"Just someone out there who's noticed you." Jeff waved his hand dismissively.

"Who?" Sherlock pursued, leaning forward in his seat and taking note of the telltale signs in the cab – there was shaving foam behind Jeff's ear, and a photo of two children in the picture frame on the dashboard, a woman, presumably the mother, had been cut out of the photo.

"Who would notice me?" Sherlock asked in an attempt to be humble. It didn't suit him.

"You're too modest, Mr. 'olmes." Jeff said, meeting his eyes in the rearview mirror.

"I'm really not." Sherlock told him. It was true.

"You've got yourself a fan." Jeff informed him, and he leant back in his seat.

"Tell me more." Sherlock said in a nonchalant tone. A wry smile found its way onto his face.

"That's all you're gonna know... in this lifetime." Jeff told him quietly, pausing in the middle for that little bit extra.

"That's all you're gonna know... in this lifetime." Jeff told him quietly, pausing in the middle for that little bit extra. He drove on and on, before finally stopping in front of a pair of buildings. Jeff turned off the engine and climbed out, walking around to Sherlock's door and opening it.

"Where are we?" Sherlock asked, already knowing the answer.

"You know every street in London. You know exactly where we are." Jeff told him, not buying it. He'd read the website.

"Roland-Kerr Further Education College. Why here?" Sherlock confirmed, admittedly rather curious.

"It's open; cleaners are in. One thing about being a cabbie: you always know a nice quiet spot for a murder. I'm surprised more of us don't branch out." Jeff told him, a thoughtful look on his face. Sherlock remained impassive.

"And you just walk your victims in? How?" He asked, nobody went to their death willingly… except for suicides. But these  _weren't_  suicides. His question was answered in the form of Jeff raising a pistol to eye level, pointed at Sherlock's face. He rolled his eyes in disgust and looked away.

"Oh, dull." Sherlock moaned. Boring.

"Don't worry. It gets better." Jeff said, grinning. Sherlock gave him a disappointed look.

"You can't make people take their own lives at gunpoint." He told the cab driver.

"I don't. It's much better than that." Jeff assured him, lowering the gun.

"Don't need this with you, 'cause you'll follow me." Jeff said, and walked away, confident that Sherlock would follow. Sherlock sat there for a moment, before grimacing. He hated himself for it, but he did exactly as Jeff predicted – It wasn't his fault he was so damn curious.

* * *

John and Kestrel sat in silence in the flat, the police officers long gone. Sherlock had disappeared off to god knows where, and Mrs. Hudson had returned to her flat downstairs. There was nothing to do but wait. Finally, John sighed and stood up. It was late and he wanted to go home, if he could call the dreary bedsit home. He made it to the living room door, before he clenched his right hand and realized that he'd left his cane behind. He went back to collect it and had just opened his mouth to say goodbye to Kestrel when the small laptop let out a ding.

They both jumped and turned to look at it. They had forgotten that it was still set to search for the phone's GPS. A map had appeared on the screen, and was zooming in. Together, they watched it until it began to beep repeatedly. Mission accomplished, the little computer declared its triumph. There was a shared look, and then Kestrel was scooping up the tiny machine and they were off. In the rush, John had forgotten that he had once again left his can behind.

* * *

Jeff led Sherlock into a classroom, and then let it swing closed after them. He turned on the lights and Sherlock walked further into the classroom and looked around. Was he supposed to be looking at something? There were rows upon rows of solid looking wooden benches – a chemistry lab perhaps?

"Well, what do you think?"Jeff asked. Sherlock raised his hands in the air, shrugging as if to say 'What am I looking at?'

"It's up to you. You're the one who's gonna die 'ere." Jeff said as Sherlock turned to face him.

"No, I'm not." Sherlock told him confidently.

"That's what they all say." Jeff nodded to one of the classroom benches.

"Shall we talk?" He asked, pulling out one of the chairs and sitting down. Sherlock nabbed another chair and turned it so he was sitting down on the other side of the bench.

"Bit risky, wasn't it? Took me away under the eye of about half a dozen policemen. They're not that stupid. And Mrs Hudson will remember you." Sherlock mused, as if he had all the time in the world.

"You call that a risk? Nah." Jeff said, reaching into his jacket pocket.

"This is a risk." He told Sherlock, pulling out a clear glass bottle. Inside the bottle, sat an unmarked capsule, identical to the ones taken by the victims. Sherlock stared at it, unblinkingly.

"Ooh, I like this bit. 'Cause you don't get it yet, do yer? But you're about to. I just have to do this." Jeff baited him, reaching into his other pocket to retrieve another glass bottle. They were exactly alike – right down to the screw on caps.

"You weren't expecting that, were yer?" Jeff grinned, leaning forward. Sherlock remained impassive.

"Ooh, you're going to love this."Jeff told him with a glint in his eye. Sherlock frowned.

"Love what?" Sherlock asked, confused.

"Sherlock 'olmes. Look at you! 'Ere in the flesh. That website of yours: your fan told me about it." Jeff said happily, leaning back in his seat.

"My fan?" Sherlock repeated.

"You are brilliant. You are. A proper genius. "The Science of Deduction." Now that is proper thinking. Between you and me sitting 'ere, why can't people think?" Jeff scowled at the wooden surface of the bench.

"Don't it make you mad? Why can't people just think?" He asked, looking up as Sherlock. Sherlock watched him for a moment more before it came to him. He narrowed his eyes.

"Oh, I see. So you're a proper genius too." Sherlock said sarcastically.

"Don't look it, do I? Funny little man drivin' a cab. But you'll know better in a minute. Chances are it'll be the last thing you ever know." Jeff told him. Sherlock eyes him a moment more before looking back to the bottles.

"Okay, two bottles. Explain." Sherlock demanded, willing to play along.

"There's a good bottle and a bad bottle. You take the pill from the good bottle, you live; take the pill from the bad bottle, you die." Jeff explained cheerfully.

"Both bottles are of course identical." Sherlock stated.

"In every way." Jeff confirmed.

"And you know which is which." Sherlock asked, checking.

"Course I know." Jeff scoffed.

"But I don't." Sherlock said dryly.

"Wouldn't be a game if you knew. You're the one who chooses." Jeff's tone was playful. Like a cat who played with a mouse, until of course, the mouse bit him and made its escape.

"Why should I? I've got nothing to go on. What's in it for me?" Sherlock pointed out.

"I 'aven't told you the best bit yet. Whatever bottle you choose, I take the pill from the other one – and then, together, we take our medicine." Jeff finished. Sherlock grinned – Now  _that_  was interesting.

"I won't cheat. It's your choice. I'll take whatever pill you don't." Jeff told him. Sherlock stared at the two bottled, eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

"Didn't expect that, did you, Mr. 'olmes?" Jeff said, pleased.

"This is what you did to the rest of them: you gave them a choice." Sherlock asked him.

"And now I'm givin' you one." Jeff confirmed. Sherlock looked at him.

"You take your time. Get yourself together." Jeff licked his lips in anticipation.

"I want your best game." Jeff said.

"It's not a game. It's chance." Sherlock told him scathingly.

"I've played four times. I'm alive. It's not chance, Mr. 'olmes, it's chess. It's a game of chess, with one move, and one survivor. And this... this is the move." Jeff slid the left bottle over to Sherlock.

"Did I just give you the good bottle or the bad bottle? You can choose either one." Jeff asked him. His expression betrayed nothing.

* * *

In the back of a taxi, John sat with Kestrel, a phone pressed to his ear. He was currently arguing with some annoying little busybody from the police department.

"No, Detective Inspector Lestrade. I need to speak to him. It's important. It's an emergency!" John spoke rapidly into the phone, while Kestrel balanced the laptop on her knees. It was still tracking the phone's signal. But for how long? How long until the battery ran out?

"Left here, please. Left here." Kestrel told the cabbie, leaning over the back of the front seats. The drive continued in this manner for several more minutes – Kestrel directing the journey and John cussing out every idiot who answered the phone – they all seemed to be very sure that D.I Lestrade didn't need to be bothered. Finally, about five minutes away from the signal, Kestrel gave up. She shoved the laptop at John and yanked the phone away.

"Listen here you little prick. D.I Lestrade happens to be my big brother. Now my best friend is currently at the mercy of an insane serial killer. He also happens to be the only one who can solve this case. You put my brother on the phone now, or I will bury you. You won't ever work in any form of government office again once I am done. Are we clear?" She hissed down the phone, her voice dark. She would do it too. If Sherlock was hurt; she knew that there were people out there who would deal with the paper pushers.

The taxi pulled up outside Roland-Kerr College and dropped them off. As they got out, John tucked the tiny laptop into his jacket, and they stood, staring at the two identical buildings. The GPS had gotten them this far, but it wasn't strong enough to do exact coordinates. Which building should they choose? They looked at each other, and then John made up his mind. Kestrel followed, both praying that they had chosen the right one.

* * *

"You ready yet, Mr. 'olmes? Ready to play?" Jeff asked, looking down at the bottles before meeting Sherlock's eyes.

"Play what? It's a fifty-fifty chance." Sherlock said, unamused.

"You're not playin' the numbers, you're playin' me. Did I just give you the good pill or the bad pill? Is it a bluff? Or a double-bluff? Or a triple-bluff?" Jeff was enjoying himself.

"Still just chance." Sherlock told him, convinced.

"Four people in a row? It's not just chance." Jeff warned him.

"Luck." Sherlock was skeptical.

"It's genius. I know 'ow people think." Jeff said proudly. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I know 'ow people think I think. I can see it all, like a map inside my 'ead." Jeff told him, and Sherlock sighed, clearly exasperated. Would he just  _get on_  with it.

"Everyone's so stupid – even you." Jeff continued, and Sherlock's eyes narrowed. Oh, he did not just say that.

"Or maybe God just loves me." Jeff mused. Sherlock straightened in his seat and leant forwards, folding his hands in front of him.

"Either way, you're wasted as a cabbie." Sherlock said, a hint of venom in his tone. Sherlock lifted his folded hand to his mouth as he watched Jeff intently.

"So, you risked your life four times just to kill strangers. Why?" Sherlock asked. Jeff didn't answer.

"Time to play." He said, nodding at the bottles.

"Oh, I am playing. This is my turn." Sherlock told him, unfolding his fingers to steeple them instead. He narrowed his eyes and began.

"There's shaving foam behind your left ear. Nobody's pointed it out to you. Traces of where it's happened before, so obviously you live on your own; there's no-one to tell you. There's a photograph of children. The children's mother has been cut out of the picture. If she'd died, she'd still be there." Sherlock said, and Jeff tried not to fidget. He was  _good_.

"The photograph's old but the frame's new. You think of your children but you don't get to see them. Estranged father. She took the kids, but you still love them and it still hurts." Sherlock decided, and Jeff refused to meet his eyes. Sherlock extended his index fingers and smiled.

"Ah, but there's more. Your clothes: recently laundered but everything you're wearing's at least... three years old? Keeping up appearances but not planning ahead. And here you are on a kamikaze murder spree. What's that about?" Sherlock carried on, but Jeff had regained control over himself and held Sherlock's gaze with ease. Sherlock's eyes widened ever so slightly as the answer came to him.

"Ahh. Three years ago – is that when they told you?" Sherlock inquired, his voice soft.

"Told me what?" Jeff asked flatly.

"That you're a dead man walking." Sherlock said. Jeff was ill, or suffering from some kind of condition. He had an expiration date.

"So are you." Jeff said. Everybody was. It was just a matter of how long it took.

"You don't have long, though. Am I right?" Sherlock tested, and Jeff smiled.

"Aneurism." Jeff told him, tapping the side of his head.

"Right in 'ere." Sherlock smiled, satisfied.

"Any breath could be my last." Jeff said. Sherlock frowned.

"And because you're dying, you've just murdered four people?" Sherlock asked.

"I've outlived four people. That's the most fun you can 'ave on an aneurism." Jeff declared.

"No. No, there's something else. You didn't just kill four people because you're bitter. Bitterness is a paralytic. Love is a much more vicious motivator. Somehow this is about your children." Sherlock mused, ever thoughtful. Jeff looked away and sighed.

"Ohh. You are good, ain't you?" Jeff looked back to Sherlock.

"But how?" Sherlock asked. Jeff indulged him.

"When I die, they won't get much, my kids. Not a lot of money in driving cabs."

"Or serial killing." Sherlock said. Jeff raised his eyebrows.

"You'd be surprised." He told the younger man.

"Surprise me." Sherlock said, steel in his eyes. Jeff leant forwards.

"I 'ave a sponsor." Jeff announced conspiratorially.

"You have a what?" Sherlock asked him incredulously.

"For every life I take, money goes to my kids. The more I kill, the better off they'll be. You see? It's nicer than you think." Jeff told him.

"Who'd sponsor a serial killer?" Sherlock frowned.

"Who'd be a fan of Sherlock 'olmes?" Jeff shot back at him. They stared at each other for a moment.

"You're not the only one to enjoy a good murder. There's others out there just like you, except you're just a man... and they're so much more than that." Jeff said, in an almost vacant tone. Sherlock's nose twitched.

"What d'you mean, more than a man? An organisation? What?" Sherlock pressed.

"There's a name no-one says, an' I'm not gonna say it either. Now, enough chatter." Jeff decided, and nodded to the bottles.

"Time to choose." He said. Sherlock stared down at the two, innocent seemingly bottles. Which once was it?

* * *

The search for Sherlock was not going so well. They'd gotten into the building pretty easily, but there were so many rooms, and not a single clue as to which one he was in. They'd even checked the bathrooms. John had a toilet brush thrown at him by a cleaning lady when he'd dared to check in a bathroom, one which had turned out to be a ladies room. Oops.

"Sherlock?" John shouted, running down a long corridor, Kestrel on his heels. They ran from door to door, peering through windows, and veering around sharp corners. But there was no sign of him.

"Sherlock!" He shouted again. There was no reply. They went through yet another door, and up a staircase before going down another corridor. Nothing. Down a staircase and through more doors, there was no sign of Sherlock.

* * *

"What if I don't choose either? I could just walk out of here." Sherlock asked him, watching him carefully. Jeff sighed, both disappointed and annoyed. He lifted the pistol and pointed it straight at Sherlock's forehead.

"You can take your fifty-fifty chance, or I can shoot you in the head." Jeff told him. Sherlock smiled, completely calm.

"Funnily enough, no-one's ever gone for that option." Jeff said.

"I'll have the gun, please." Sherlock chose, his gaze unfaltering.

"Are you sure?" Jeff asked him.

"Definitely. The gun." He said, still smiling.

"You don't wanna phone a friend?"Jeff tested. Sherlock didn't even blink.

"The gun." Sherlock said firmly. Jeff frowned, and complied – slowly squeezing the trigger. But instead of a bullet, a flame burst out of the gun's muzzle. It was a cigarette lighter.

"I know a real gun when I see one."Sherlock told him smugly.

"None of the others did." Jeff admitted, relaxing and releasing his hold on the trigger. The flame went out.

"Clearly. Well, this has been very interesting. I look forward to the court case." Sherlock said flippantly, standing up and crossing the room in a few of his long strides. Jeff lay the fake-gun on the desk, turning in his seat.

"Just before you go, did you figure it out... Which one's the good bottle?" Jeff asked him teasingly. Sherlock stopped in his tracks and looked around.

"Of course. Child's play." He told him confidently.

"Well, which one, then?" Jeff pushed. Sherlock opened the door, but didn't go through it.

"Which one would you 'ave picked, just so I know whether I could have beaten you?" Jeff asked. Sherlock closed his eyes, and sighed, before turning back. He could never resist a challenge.

"Come on. Play the game." Jeff chuckled, baiting him.

Sherlock walked back over to the desk that Jeff was sat at, He stretched out one of his arms, and swiped up one of the bottles, before walking on past. Jeff looked at the other bottle, interestedly, but his voice gave no hints as to which bottle Sherlock had chosen.

"Oh. Interesting." Jeff mused, picking up the other bottle, watching Sherlock as he turned the bottle over in his hand. He opened his bottle and tipped the capsule into his hand, looking at Sherlock who closely examined his own bottle.

"So what d'you think?" Jeff asked, looking up at Sherlock.

"Shall we? Really, what do you think?" Jeff said, standing up to face Sherlock, who watched him..

"Can you beat me? Are you clever enough to bet your life?"

* * *

John and Kestrel burst through one finally door, only to realize that they were in the wrong building. They watched through the window as Sherlock faced down the old cab driver. They were in an almost identical classroom to the one that Sherlock stood in, mirrored across a small section of road. John let out a cry of horror as Kestrel screamed in frustration at the same time.

"SHERLOCK!" John shouted, horrified.

"Sherlock, No!" Kestrel screamed in despair. There was no time to get around to the other building. She looked to John, who seemed just as lost as she did. There was nothing that they could do. John looked around the room they were in, before his hand twitched and he reached or the back of his waistband.

Across the way, in the other classroom, unaware that they were being watched, Jeff and Sherlock squared off. Jeff turned his pill over in his hand, eyes fixed on Sherlock.

"I bet you get bored, don't you? I know you do. A man like you... So clever. But what's the point of being clever if you can't prove it?" Jeff taunted. Sherlock slowly undid the lid of the bottle and shook out the small capsule, taking his time to examine it closer in the light.

"Still the addict." Sherlock lowered the pill, still silent, holding it at eye level.

"But this... this is what you're really addicted to, innit? You'd do anything... anything at all... to stop being bored." Jeff said. Sherlock's finger began to shake – he was excited. The adrenaline was rushing around his body. In tandem, the two men slowly began to raise the pills to take them.

"You're not bored now, are you?" Jeff said, as they both brought the pills up to their mouths.

"Innit good?" Jeff asked gleefully. Famous last words.

There was a crack, as a gun went off, and a bullet ripped through the left-hand side of Jeff's chest, not far from his heart. It lodged in the wall behind him, and he fell to the ground with a thump. Sherlock dropped his capsule out of sheer surprise. He had not anticipated  _this_.

In the other classroom, John stood stock still, his pistol still raised and aimed out of the open window. Kestrel watched him lower the gun to his side. They shared a look, and then fled. It wouldn't be a good idea to be there when the police finally arrived. They made it out of the door of the classroom with seconds to spare, as Sherlock shook his head to clear it, and turned, sliding over the desk to get to the window. There was a bullet hole in the window, but the one of the opposite classroom was open to the elements. There was nobody there.

Sherlock's attention was pulled back to his immediate surroundings when Jeff let ough a rough cough, breathing heavily. One of the pills still lay on the desk, and Sherlock snatched it up before kneeling at Jeff's side.

"Was I right?" Sherlock growled out, frantic. The wound was fatal. Jeff turned his head away in disbelief, he had not predicted this.

"I was, wasn't I? Did I get it right?" Sherlock fussed. He  _had_  to know. When Jeff remained silent, Sherlock hurled his pill across the room, frustrated. He stood up.

"Okay, tell me this: your sponsor. Who was it? The one who told you about me – my 'fan'. I want a name." He demanded, he was going to have this victory at least.

"No." Jeff refused, his voice weak.

"You're dying, but there's still time to hurt you. Give me a name." Sherlock told him, and Jeff shook his head. Angry, Sherlock lifted his foot, and leant down onto Jeff's shoulder, just above the bullet wound.

"A name." Sherlock pressed, ignoring Jeff's cry of pain.

"Now." He said; his voice hard. Jeff whined, his face full of pain, but Sherlock had no sympathy for the man who had callously caused the deaths of four others. His face intent, Sherlock put his full weight into his foot and Jeff could only whimper.

"The NAME!" Sherlock insisted furiously, pressing down harder with his boot.

"MORIARTY!" Jeff yelled out, and let out a gasp of pain before his eyes rolled up into his skull and he passed out. Sherlock stepped backwards, thinking hard as always, and other the word 'Moriarty' to himself.

It didn't take long for the rest of the cavalry to arrive at the college, and soon Sherlock was sat on the back steps of an Ambulance, the same one that they had loaded the now dead body of Jeff Hope into. A paramedic placed an orange blanket around Sherlock's shoulders again. Key word:  _again._

"Why have I got this blanket? They keep putting this blanket on me." Sherlock asked, gesturing to the blanket, clearly irritated.

"Yeah, it's for shock." Lestrade told him, trying to hide a smile.

"I'm not in shock." Sherlock told him, eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Yeah, but some of the guys wanna take photographs." Lestrade admitted, grinning. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Plebeians.

"So, the shooter. No sign?" Sherlock asked.

"Cleared off before we got 'ere. But a guy like that would have had enemies, I suppose. One of them could have been following him but..." Here, Lestrade paused to shrug.

"...got nothing to go on." He finished. Sherlock gave him a look that read: 'Are you really that stupid?'

"Oh, I wouldn't say that." Sherlock told him with a wry smile. He ignored it when Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"Okay, gimme." Lestrade said with a miserable sigh.

"The bullet they just dug out of the wall's from a hand gun. Kill shot over that distance from that kind of a weapon – that's a crack shot you're looking for, but not just a marksman; a fighter. His hands couldn't have shaken at all, so clearly he's acclimatized to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle. You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service..." Sherlock told him, turning to see John and Kestrel waiting for him on the other side of the police tape. Kestrel was making slashing motions at him, warning him to stop.

"...and nerves of steel..." Sherlock trailed off, making the connection between Kestrel's movements and John's innocent look. It was a little  _too_  innocent. Lestrade turned to follow Sherlock's gaze, but he started walking away before any questions could be asked. He wasn't going to snitch on the man who saved his life.

"Actually, do you know what? Ignore me." Sherlock said, looking back to Lestrade.

"Sorry?" Lestrade asked, completely baffled.

"Ignore all of that. It's just the, er, the shock talking." Sherlock bluffed, moving further away.

"Where're you going?" Lestrade demanded.

"I just need to talk about the-the rent." Sherlock said vaguely, having turned to look back at the ruffled D.I

"But I've still got questions for you." Lestrade protested.

"Oh, what now? I'm in shock! Look, I've got a blanket!" Sherlock huffed, irritated. He flapped the corners of his blanket to push his point across.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade shouted after him.

"And I just caught you a serial killer... more or less." Sherlock added, making Lestrade pause. He looked thoughtful for a moment, before sighing heavily.

"Okay. We'll bring you in tomorrow. Off you go." Lestrade told him, and Sherlock walked away. He removed the blanket from his shoulders, bundling it up into a ball as he reached the police line. He tossed the blanket through the open passenger window of one of the police cars and ducked under the tape.

"Um, Sergeant Donovan's just been explaining everything, the two pills. Been a dreadful business, hasn't it? Dreadful." John said, trying to act normal, as if he had no previous knowledge of what had been going on. Sherlock gave him a look and Kestrel suppressed a grin. The innocent look wasn't working.

"Good shot." Sherlock told him quietly.

"Yes. Yes, must have been, through that window." John said, still trying to look innocent.

"Well, you'd know." Kestrel murmured, sharing a look with Sherlock.

"Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case." Sherlock told him, straight-faced. John cleared his throat, looking around unsettled.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked him, focusing in on John's face.

"Yes, of course I'm all right." John told him, squirming uncomfortably under Sherlock's all-encompassing gaze.

"Well, you have just killed a man." Kestrel reminded him softly.

"Yes, I..." John admitted, trailing off. They stood there in silence for a minute.

"That's true, innit?" John agreed, flashing them a wan smile. There was another beat of silence and then:

"But he wasn't a very nice man." John told them, straight-faced. Kestrel had to stifle a giggle as Sherlock nodded, agreeing.

"No. No, he wasn't really, was he?" Sherlock said, trying to cover up a smirk.

"And frankly a bloody awful cabbie." John added, making Kestrel dissolve into peals of laughter, which she would later explain to the surrounding police officers as a release of nervous energy.

"That's true. He was a bad cabbie. Should have seen the route he took us to get here!" Sherlock told them. Suddenly it was John's turn to try not to laugh. Sherlock grinned.

"Stop! Stop, we can't giggle, it's a crime scene! Stop it!" John scolded, trying not to imitate Kestrel.

"You're the one who shot him. Don't blame me." Sherlock drawled, enjoying the moment.

"Keep your voice down!" Kestrel hissed, elbowing them both in the ribs as they passed a suspicious Donovan.

"Sorry – it's just, um, nerves, I think." John said to Donovan, trying to avert her attention.

"Sorry." Sherlock agreed, and they walked away from her as quickly as possible. John cleared his throat, looking at Sherlock.

"You were gonna take that damned pill, weren't you?" John asked, making Sherlock turn to look at him. Kestrel's laughter stopped as she watched them both carefully.

"Course I wasn't. Biding my time. Knew you'd turn up." Sherlock said flippantly, trying to avoid the question.

"No you didn't. It's how you get your kicks, isn't it? You risk your life to prove you're clever." John told him, eyes narrowed. Kestrel's breath caught in her throat.

"Why would I do that?" Sherlock asked him, testing. There was a moment of silence as John considered his answer.

"Because you're an idiot." John decided, making both Sherlock and Kestrel smile. Finally! Somebody who understood. Kestrel shot Sherlock a look - They were keeping this one.

"Dinner?" Kestrel suggested cheerfully.

"Starving." John agreed and Sherlock nodded. Food sounded good. They turned around and started walking again, ad Sherlock led them onwards.

"End of Baker Street, there's a good Chinese stays open 'til two. You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle." Sherlock mused. How one could know this was unfathomable, but if Sherlock said so… A few yards in front of them, a black sedan pulled up. It was the same sedan that had… borrowed John earlier. The stranger climbed out of it, and John stopped in his tracks.

"Sherlock. That's him. That's the man I was talking to you about." John fussed, staring at the stranger. Kestrel groaned as she caught sight of the stranger, and Sherlock's eyes went cold.

"I know exactly who that is." Sherlock told him with an irritated air in his voice. He walked closer to the man, and there was a reluctant air about his gait. A few feet apart, Sherlock stopped, looking around angrily. John glanced around, making sure the Police were close enough should they need help.

"So, another case cracked. How very public spirited... though that's never really your motivation, is it?" The stranger said in a congenial tone.

"What are you doing here?" Kestrel asked, eyes narrowed. As always, the hair on the back of her neck was straight on end – bringing these two together was not a wise idea.

"As ever, I'm concerned about you." The stranger said to Sherlock, ignoring Kestrel completely.

"Yes, I've been hearing about your 'concern'." Sherlock ground out.

"Always so aggressive. Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?" The stranger asked pleasantly.

"Oddly enough, no!" Sherlock snarked, his hackles rising.

"We have more in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer... and you know how it always upset Mummy." The stranger told him, making John frown. Kestrel rolled her eyes.

"I upset her?  _Me?_ " Sherlock asked, incredulously. The stranger glowered at him.

"It wasn't me that upset her, Mycroft." Sherlock told him.

"No, no, wait. Mummy? Who's Mummy?" John protested, feeling very lost.

"Mother – our mother. This is my brother, Mycroft." Sherlock told him. John starred, and even Kestrel jabbing him in the ribs couldn't break his gaze.

"Putting on weight again?" Sherlock asked Mycroft snidely.

"Losing it, in fact." Mycroft said, straightening his suit.

"He's your brother?!" John gaped at Sherlock.

"Of course he's my brother." Sherlock snapped. He hated family reunions of all sorts.

"His brother?" John repeated, turning to Kestrel.

"Not now John." She hissed, watching the siblings warily. She really wasn't up for dealing for WW3 tonight. Whenever the pair came together, sparks would inevitably fly, and she was always the one who ended up having to deal with the clean-up. It was John who finally broke the stalemate.

"So he's not..." John began, looking back and forth between the two siblings.

"Not what?" Sherlock asked as the three of them turned to look at the embarrassed John who shrugged.

"I dunno – criminal mastermind?" John voiced the thought he had been carrying all night, wishing he'd never said anything to begin with.

"Close enough." Sherlock said dryly, eyeing his brother. Kestrel snorted.

"For goodness' sake. I occupy a minor position in the British government." Mycroft protested, clearly annoyed by the label.

"He is the British government, when he's not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis." Sherlock told John, ignoring Mycroft's huffing.

"Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home. You know what it does for the traffic." Sherlock said grumpily, before walking off.

"Now you've done it." Kestrel hissed at Mycroft, before hurrying after him. John made to follow her, but turned back to Mycroft who was watching Sherlock carefully.

"So, when-when you say you're concerned about him, you actually are concerned?" John asked, trying to make sense of the situation.

"Yes, of course." Mycroft told him.

"I mean, it actually is a childish feud?" Jon said, honestly curious.

"He's always been so resentful. You can imagine the Christmas dinners." Mycroft admitted with a sigh, still focused on Sherlock.

"Yeah... no. God, no!" John mumbled, before half-turning, intending to follow his new friends.

"I-I'd better, um..." John tried to explain, before giving up and looking at 'Anthea' who was, as always, focused on her blackberry.

"Hello again." John said to her. She looked up, clearly not recognizing him, and smiled brightly.

"Hello." She replied.

"Yes, we-we met earlier on this evening." John told her.

"Oh!" 'Anthea' exclaimed, trying to pretend as if she actually remembered him. John didn't buy it – He wasn't stupid, no matter how many times Sherlock had inferred it that day.

"Okay, good night." John said, nodding to Mycroft and turning to finally scarper after his friends.

"Good night, Doctor Watson." Mycroft replied absent-mindedly, watching him catch up to Kestrel and Sherlock, and falling into step with them.

"So: dim sum." John asked as he rejoined the.

"Mmm! I can always predict the fortune cookies." Sherlock told him happily.

"No you can't." John said, smiling.

"Almost can. You did get shot, though." Sherlock mused, thinking back.

"Sorry?" John did a double take. Kestrel smiled – He always had to be right.

"In Afghanistan. There was an actual wound." Sherlock elaborated.

"Oh, yeah. Shoulder." John agreed.

"Shoulder! I thought so." Sherlock exclaimed happily, making the corners of Kestrel's mouth twitch.

"No you didn't." John told him, grinning.

"The left one." Sherlock guessed.

"Lucky guess." John said.

"I never guess." Sherlock lied, causing the others to start laughing.

"Yes you do." Kestrel insisted, and Sherlock smiled.

"What are you so happy about?" John asked him.

"Moriarty." Sherlock said gleefully.

"What's Moriarty?" Kestrel asked while John frowned.

"I've absolutely no idea." Sherlock admitted cheerfully.

Back at the black sedan, 'Anthea' looked away from her phone momentarily, and walked over to Mycroft, who was watching the three friends walk away.

"Sir, shall we go?" She asked, before looking down at her phone once again. Yet another email had arrived in her inbox – this one a missive about a mission in Vienna.

"Interesting, that soldier fellow." Mycroft muttered to himself, causing 'Anthea' to look up again.

"He could be the making of my brother – or make him worse than ever. Either way, we'd better upgrade their surveillance status. Grade Three Active." Mycroft said, 'Anthea' looked at him, a little lost.

"Sorry, sir. Whose status?" She asked, having been focused on an email detailing the latest operation that had been assigned to him. Mycroft looked to her, and then back at the trio.

"My baby brother and his delinquent friends, or should I call them the Baker Street Trio?" Mycroft said, mulling it over in his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN:  
> 1) Any queries involving this fic should be directed to: aspenwilder at gmail dot com  
> 2) Scripts I used can be found here: arianedevere dot livejournal dot com/36505 dot html  
> 3) It's 5 past midnight, and I'm stumped, so I' off to bed. Hello March, how nice to see you - Can I eat my easter egg yet? I have a new account on AO3 under the same penname by the way (Thanks for the invite Caz!) so it'll be up there as well. Goodnight everybody!


	5. Interlude: Moving In/The Girl in Blue Underwear

* * *

_"Yes, but why are you half naked in our living room?"_

_\- John Watson._

* * *

The week that followed the serial suicides was really like no other. In fact, it had been one of the strangest that had ever been in John Watson's life. The cliff notes version was that he had moved in with Sherlock, and that Kestrel had come to visit. The truth was a lot more interesting. It went a little something like this:

_"Why are there fingers in the fridge?" John asked, holding the door open. He'd only gone in for the milk so he could have his tea._

_"Experiment." Sherlock told him vaguely._

_"What kind of science experiment could possibly acquire of you to keep FINGERS in the fridge?!" John cried indignantly._

_'"Honestly John, I'm testing the effects of temperature on the process of decomposition." Sherlock scoffed, sifting through a pile of papers._

_"Could you not just get a mini fridge or something for these experiments? I'm sick and tired of finding body parts next to the milk!" John asked, feeling as if he was at the end of his rope._

_"John! If I move them now, it'll interfere with my experiment!" Sherlock said, exasperated._

_"If you do not have all human body parts removed from the fridge in the next 24 hours, I will get Mrs. Hudson to confiscate your skull again." John exclaimed. Sherlock ignored him. John waited a few minutes more, but there was still no answer._

_"I mean it, Sherlock! No more human body parts in the fridge or else I'll tell Mrs. Hudson that you'd like to go out on a date with her niece Anna."_ _John warned him threateningly. For such a short man, in comparison to Sherlock's immense height, John was rather menacing-looking._

_"Fine. I'll remove the_ human  _body parts. You said nothing about the animal ones, and as such those shall remain." Sherlock agreed, happy to have found a loophole._

_"Just keep it away from the stuff we eat and cook with, Sherlock." John told him tiredly._

_"If I must." Sherlock acquiesced, huffily._

_"Good, and don't think I won't make good on that threat if that stuff goes anywhere near the stuff we eat."_

...

_"Sherlock! You have to stop putting frog legs in the toaster! That's the second time I've had to clean the damn thing!" John protested, severely annoyed._

_"But it's for science!" Sherlock whined. It was a pathetic defense, and he knew it. John glowered at him._

_"…" Sherlock actually cringed, slightly, but he was still cringing._

_"…Are you training to be a French chef?" Kestrel asked, perched on the edge of the couch while she munched on her scone. Both men turned to her._

_"Y'know – Frog legs are supposed to be fried, not toasted." She added, after not receiving any reply._

_"…"_

_"…"_

_"What?" She asked, wondering why she was only getting blank looks._

...

_"Oi! Sherlock! Move the goddamn blowtorch away from the couch!" Kestrel shouted at him._

_"Kestrel, don't you point that at me, I'll-" Sherlock told her, not liking the way that she held the bottle of squirty cream. Her finger slipped, and he was showered in the bottles contents._

_"Oh. I hate you." Sherlock hissed at her, she gulped. Oh dear. John rolled his eyes. This meant war. Sherlock retaliated by snatching up the can of silly string that Kestrel had left on the sideboard. She ducked and it covered the book that John was reading._

_"…" John's glower spoke many rude words that cannot be written down due to common decency. Quite a few of them were Arabic too._

_"Hey!" Kestrel shouted, as John lunged for the fridge, he resurfaced with a can of squirty cheese and immediately began dousing them in yellow goop. Why they had a can of squirty cheese in the fridge, nobody could be sure, but it seemed to serve its purpose as a weapon. Thus the first food fight of Baker Street began._

_For nearly twenty minutes, chaos reigned free in the space between the kitchen and the living room, strands of compressed cheese, cream and green, sticky string flew through the air, coating whatever they touched. It was not not to last though._

_"What on earth is going on?" Mrs. Hudson's question caused the three of them to freeze. Cream dripped down the walls, and they shared a look, uncertain of what to do. Silence, and then:_

_"Umm… Well, you see…" After that day, food fights were banned. Kestrel still pouted when John confiscated the squirty cream._

...

_"Do we actually own a kettle?" John asked, walking into the kitchen and looking around, confused._

_"I don't know, I just keep borrowing Mrs. Hudson's." Sherlock admitted, uninterested._

_"Sherlock!" John and Kestrel cried at the same time._

_"What?" He asked. They glared at him._

_"Sherlock, you can't take Mrs. Hudson's things whenever you feel like it." John said tiredly._

_"Why not?" Sherlock asked Kestrel smacked her forehead in frustration._

_"It's just not right." John told him._

_"But– " Sherlock tried. Tried being the operative word, Kestrel cut him off._

_"How would you like it if I moved all your experiments?" She demanded._

_"But-" Sherlock tried again, sounding like a petulant child._

_"Sherlock!" Kestrel growled._

_"Fine!" Sherlock exclaimed, exasperated. Later that day, a new kettle was bought and placed in the kitchen. Sherlock spent the evening moping around, annoyed by his defeat._

...

When he'd first mentioned Sherlock in his blog, he had dubbed him 'The madman', and he was in fact, quite mad. But he was also quite clever. But most of all, he had a gift for being severely annoying. John had been woken up in the middle of the night on more than one occasion by Sherlock playing the violin.

_"Sherlock it's 3 in the morning. What on earth are you doing?"_

_"Hmm..."_

_"Sherlock!"_

_"What?"_

_"It's 3am - What're you doing?"_

_"Isn't it obvious. I'm thinking."_

_"…"_

_"…"_

_"I'm going back to bed." John huffed, and went back up the stairs. After a moment, Sherlock went back to his violin. Upstairs, John pulled a pillow over his head and moaned, annoyed._

…

On another night, he'd gone downstairs to get a glass of water, only to find the man in question staring a glass cylinder of flies - he had apparently been trying to find a pattern in how the flies acted. Odd.

_"Sherlock... What are you doing?" John asked, standing barefoot in the doorway. Sherlock didn't look up from where he was sat with his violin in hand._

_"Sherlock?" Sherlock jerked and looked around._

_"Hmm?" John nodded at the glass jar._

_"What're you doing?" He asked again. Sherlock smiled._

_"There's a pattern to how they fly." Sherlock mumbled._

_"I'm sorry?" John asked him, not sure what he had just said._

_"There is a pattern. They're flying in circles." Sherlock told him. John nodded absentmindedly, before turning and heading back upstairs, drink forgotten._

The third strange event that had happened was not actually Sherlock's fault. Not in the least. They had been drinking their morning tea together, quite peacefully, when Kestrel had walked out of Sherlock's bedroom all sleepy eyes, hair fluffed from snuggling closely with a pillow - that John could handle. He was not, however, prepared for what she was wearing. She was clad in a pair of cobalt blue lace underwear and navy silk bathrobe that had been tied rather loosely. Poor John ended up coughing and sputtering as he choked on his tea.

_"Kestrel. What are you doing?" John said, voice catching as he watched the young woman waltz out of Sherlock's room, bare feet padding across the floor. The bleary-eyed woman turned to face him._

_"Um… Getting breakfast?" She replied, a little confused._

_"Yes, but why are you half naked in our living room?" John asked, trying not to stare. It was hard - the color was rather eye-catching._

_"Cause I can." She told him, and flashed him a wry smile before stealing his cup of tea. John thought about it a moment longer, and then said._

_"Did you sleep in Sherlock's bed?"_

_"Yes…" Kestrel admitted, nonplussed. John's brain began to sputter._

_"Why?" He asked._

_"I was tired – unless you plan on offering to share your bed." Kestrel shot him a devious look, and John swallowed. Hard._

Oh, and now the doorbell didn't work. Apparently Sherlock had shot it out of sheer boredom. John still hadn't found out where he'd gotten the gun from.

He was a child, John had decided, a child in a man's body. He'd started writing his blog again, now that he had something to write about. The case they had solved had been posted under the moniker of 'A Study in Pink'. Sherlock, needless to say, had not been impressed, but Kestrel had actually climbed into his lap and stolen his computer so that she could read it, before using her phone to commence a comment war with him. It had only ended when Sherlock had careened into the kitchen to save his latest experiment.

**Molly Hooper:** Sherlock's amazing, isn't he. He's just so brilliant!  _07 February, 16:06_

**Anonymous:** Oh he's a genius. I do hope we'll meet one day.  _07 February, 16:09_

**Sally Donovan:** Freak. _07 February, 16:36_

**Kestrel Lestrade:** *Comment deleted*  _March 28, 16:59_

**John Watson:** Kestrel! Language!  _March 28, 17:19_

**Kestrel Lestrade:** She started it.  _March 28, 17:26_

**John Watson:** There's no need to be rude.  _March 28, 17:30_

**Kestrel Lestrade:** Rude? That was me being polite.  _March 28, 17:35_

**John Watson:** Behave.  _March 28, 17:40_

**Kestrel Lestrade:** Are you going to make me?  _March 28, 17:46_

**Sherlock Holmes:** John, I've only just found this post. I've glanced over it and honestly, words fail me. What I do is an exact science and should be treated as such. You've made the whole experience seem like some kind of romantic adventure. You should have focused on my analytical reasoning and nothing more.  _March 28, 17:46_

**John Watson:** Go away Sherlock! _March 28, 18:05_

**Sherlock Holmes:** Why are you having a text conversation when you are quite literally sitting on each other?  _March 28, 18:10_

**Kestrel Lestrade:** Sherlock, your experiment is on fire.  _March 28, 18:12_

"How exactly did you meet?" John asked her as they watched Sherlock race around like a madman. Kestrel frowned, and tilted her head.

"It involved a murder, as always; Sherlock being a git, as always; and a strip club where I did a lap dance to seduce a suspect - long story." She told him. John did a double-take.

"What?"

Life went on, and quite frankly, John thought, that amid all the strangeness and body parts in the fridge - It was a very good life. That was, of course, until he was woken up at 3am again by Sherlock's experiments setting off the fire alarm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 14.04.2013
> 
> 1) Any queries involving this fic should be directed to: aspenwilder at gmail dot com
> 
> 2) Scripts I used can be found here: arianedevere dot livejournal dot com/36505 dot html
> 
> 3) Sections of John and Sherlock's discussion of body parts in the fridge were derived, and modified, from a Oneshot that Caz and I share on AO3 - it's based on a conversation we had a few weeks back. Caz is my Watson.
> 
> 4) The fly-in-a-jar scene was based on the scene in the 2009 movie with Robert Downey Jr.
> 
> 5) This is just a short interlude. Chapters 6-9 will be from the Blind Banker, Chapter 10 will be another Interlude - This one will be longer, detailing Kestrel's first meeting with Sherlock. Then The Great Game will take up Chapters 11-14, and a Special will complete Season 1 for Chapter 15.
> 
> 6) In other news, pity my poor boyfriend. When I asked him his opinion of the name Kestrel, as I was writing the first few chapters, he immediately thought of baby names (he liked it too) and as such I've decided that should I ever have two daughters, I shall name them Kestrel Grace and Aspen Faith after my two leading ladies (Even though Kestrel Lestrade's middle name is Paige). I was worried that the announcement broke him – until he countered that he liked the name Markus for a boy… I have yet to find a unique spin for that name.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Name:** Kestrel Paige Lestrade  
>  **Nickname(s):** Kess, Ella, Ellie.  
>  **Age:** 28 (born: 1982)  
>  **Height:** 5 foot, 9 inches.  
>  **Weight:** 126 lbs/9st  
>  **Look-a-like:** Michelle Trachtenberg  
>  **(a)** images4 dot fanpop dot com/image/photos/20900000/Michelle-Trachtenberg-michelle-trachtenberg-20920498-1600-1200 dot jpg  
>  **(b)** ovh dot wallpowper dot com/wallpaper/2013/01/09/High-Quality-HD-michelle-trachtenberg dot jpg  
>  **(c)** www dot wallpapershdi dot com/walls/4808/michelle-trachtenberg-image_1280x1024 dot jpg  
>  **(d)** www dot celebritywallpaperbase dot com/wp-content/uploads/2010/11/Michelle-Trachtenberg-Wallpaper-6 dot jpg
> 
> **Family:** D.I Greg Lestrade (Brother)  
>  **Affiliations:** Sherlock, John, Lestrade.  
>  **Enemies:** Sally Donovan (Minor - No threat), Anderson (Minor - No threat)  
>  **Abilities:** 1st Dan Black belt in Jujitsu, Red belt in Tae Kwon Do.  
>  **Disabilities:** Has a slight weakness in left wrist, having broken it a small child; Needs reading glasses; Allergy to Latex.  
>  **Fears:** Severe distaste of bugs, no matter the kind.  
>  **History:** Currently unknown.


End file.
